A Wolf and her Lion
by dancewithdragons
Summary: Lyla Stark was the second born of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the Daughter of Winter, a lady by all rights who was raised in the North, but she felt more at home in the arms of Jaime Lannister than she ever did in Winterfell. (Rated M)
1. Chapter 1

The sun was pouring over the hills like water and a warm summer breeze whispered through the Wolfswood. Birds sang their pretty songs and there wasn't a noise to be heard otherwise- except for that of Lyla Stark's horse. They blew through the woods as fast as wind, without a thought on where they were headed. It must have been an hour after sunrise when she slowed, patting her horse's neck and panting a "Whoa."

Since the day she was born, Lyla was called the Wildling of Winterfell, and since the day she was born she strived to prove them right. While she had not the ladylike charms that her sister, Sansa, possessed, she had winter in her blood and nothing was more wild than winter. Lyla smiled to herself, rearing Morrow around and galloping back home, inhaling the scent of the stables as she passed them and halting when she saw the boys practicing in the yard.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Her father questioned when Bran missed his mark and the other boys laughed. His eyes landed on hers then and he frowned. "Another morning ride, Lyla?"

"I simply couldn't waste such a beautiful morn, father!" Lyla called from her seat on Morrow, patting his neck before swinging from the saddle and handing his reins to the stableboy that stood ready to receive them.

"Go on Bran," Robb urged as she neared them, "Try again." Bran sighed but did as told, pulling back an arrow and locking his eyes on the target.

Jon observed his stance and folded his arms, "Relax your bow arm." Again, Bran obliged, closing his eyes. Just as he was about to release the arrow, Lyla switched her gaze to where her sister silently stood underneath the balcony that overlooked the yard. She winked and Arya grinned wildly before loosing her arrow, smile growing when the mark was hit.

The boys roared in laughter again once Bran realized what happened, her parents above them joining in when Bran began chasing Arya around.

"She's just as wild as you ever were." Robb jested, earning him an elbow to his rib.

"Pray she doesn't set the sept on fire as you did, Stark." Theon added.

Lyla forced a scowl. "If I hadn't been forced to light the damned candle, it wouldn't have caught the drapes aflame."

"Robb." Eddard's voice rang clear. He neared them and Lyla could immediately tell something was wrong. His hard stone gray eyes were as solemn as ever. "There is a deserter. Bring Bran, it's his time."

Lyla furrowed her brows. "Father, Bran's only ten. _I_ haven't even seen-"

"Lyla, women's eyes are meant for beautiful things, not blood." Her father sighed, looking to Robb who nodded compliantly and took his leave with Theon and Jon.

"Father I'm fifteen and have seen more than my fare share of blood. Don't you remember that I was the one who found that dead bear by the Wolfswood? There was enough blood there for at least five men and-"

Eddard gave her a reluctant look. "If your mother finds out I'm a dead man."

Lyla grinned almost savagely wide and kissed her father's cheek. "You act as though I wouldn't take the blame, father." She mused, pulling herself onto Morrow and cursing her skirt when it got caught on the pommel of the saddle.

"He's actually letting you come?" Theon raised his brow and then laughed, turning to Robb. "Bet she'll ask to cut the bastard's head off too."

"I will not!" Lyla protested with a sly smirk. "I've not earned that honor yet."

They rode off to the basehill, Robb and Eddard in front, Theon and Lyla following after, then Jon and Bran last.

"Don't look away," Lyla heard Jon whisper to Bran as their father called for the family sword, Ice. "Father will know if you do."

The man looked young, lanky and thin with a tall willowy stature. Lyla knew from the first glance at him that he was Southron. Maybe it was the way he swaggered towards them in his thick black wools, or the way that his hair grew so straight that even a blade of grass wouldn't do it justice, or simply because his eyes were so brown and warm with summer and the South that it made Lyla sick.

Eddard looked emotionless as he whispered the titles of their king. When he proclaimed the sentence of death, Lyla reached her hand out to Bran's and squeezed it. "Be strong, little wolf." She whispered to him, her eyes reaching the deserter's just in time to see the lights leave them as Ice sliced through his neck. It only took her father one blow to get the job done, and she didn't look away for a moment as the blood danced about.

"You did well." Jon encouraged solemnly. Jon was her bastard brother by title, but as true a brother to her as Robb, Bran, or Rickon. He looked more like their father than any of her 'true' brothers; his hair was thick and so dark it was nearly black, his face long and serious, and his eyes as gray as any Northerner, though looking more silver every day it seemed.

Bran said nothing, only swallowed and followed Robb as he rode off with their father. Theon kicked the head as it rolled to his feet, Jon mumbling, "Ass." before ridding off with the rest of them.

They were riding for only a short time before they curved the riverbank and stopped. Nearly ten feet away from them lay a wolf- not just any wolf, a direwolf. It was white as snow where gray didn't dapple it, yellow eyes wide open and blank. "_Gods!_" Theon laughed, staring at it in awe. "What in the seven hells is it?"

"A wolf." Said Robb.

"A freak." Theon retorted. "Look at the _size_ of it!"

Lyla's eyes never left the carcass as she dismounted Morrow, running to it and burying her hands in it's fur- much to Jory Cassel's disposition. "It's a direwolf, not a freak." She breathed.

"Lyla get away from that!" Eddard commanded, dismounting only seconds before everyone else. It's body was half buried in the snow, ice forming on it's fur and maggots crawling from its eyes and mouth, the wound infested the worst, and yet Lyla only saw the beauty of it's long, sturdy legs and thin, lithe body. The way it's snout was slightly longer than a regular wolf and how it was bigger than Bran's pony. Nor did she miss the pups that were suckling from its teats.

"There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years." Greyjoy marveled.

Jon raised his brows in defiance of Theon's statement. "I see one now."

Robb gingerly picked up one of the pups, a yupping little gray one with hardly any white on it, yellow eyes wavering.

"Go on, you can touch him." Lyla whispered to Bran, her brother naturally roiling with a growing interest.

Jon pushed another pup into their young brother's arms as Robb pulled the first away. "Here you go." He said softly, looking up to their father. "There are six of them."

"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," Hullen muttered, "I like it not."

Jory was still clutching the pommel of his sword with white knuckles but shook his head at Hullen. "It's a sign."

Father seemed unconvinced. "This is only a dead animal, Jory." He had troubled eyes and moved around the shewolf's body slowly, snow crunching freshly under his feet. "Do we know what killed her?"

"There's something in the throat." Robb informed him, "There, just under the jaw."

They went on endlessly about the tales they'd heard, of how the pups had been born of their dead mother, but Lyla heard none of it while a fuzzy light brown shewolf crawled onto her skirts, suckling at her finger tip and looking up at her with big brown eyes. It was so helpless, so sweet.

"No matter, they'll be dead soon enough." Hullen shrugged.

Theon nodded, drawing his sword. "The sooner the better." He looked over to Bran who was still nursing his pup close. "Give it here, Bran."

"_No_! This one's mine." Bran was fierce, Tully blue eyes vivid and wild. _When he gets mussed up like that he looks truly northern_, Lyla mused to herself.

Robb's voice boomed and for a moment Lyla thought he was their father. "Put away your sword, Theon. We will keep these pups."

Hullen's son, Harwin, raised a brow. "You cannot do that, boy."

"It be a mercy to kill them," Hullen agreed.

"_No!_" Bran cried, and Lyla could see the tears welting up in his eyes. He looked to his sister pleadingly, his grip on the direwolf Jon had given him deathly tight but not so much that it hurt the pup.

"Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week." Lyla spat out hurriedly. "It was a small litter, only two live pups. She'll have milk though."

Her father didn't waver- not yet. "She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse."

"Lord Stark," Jon interrupted. Robb and Bran wrinkled their noses at the formality, and Lyla would have too if she did not understand why he did it. Jon was their bastard brother, and while every bit her brother at heart, he was still a bastard by birth. "There are six pups. Three male and three female."

"What of it Jon?"

"You have six true born children," Said Jon. "Three sons and three daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."

Lyla hated that he didn't count himself as one of her siblings- he may not have been a 'trueborn' but he was still a son by her father, her true half-brother. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" She asked, though knew he was too honest to think that he was a real Stark.

Jon only shrugged. "The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark. I am no Stark."

Eddard regarded Jon thoughtfully and then nodded, "If you want these pups-" Lyla heard nothing after that, only beamed in a way that made Theon Greyjoy raise a brow. She placed the pups in her brother and friend's arms; two in Robb's, two in Theon's, and then smiled to Bran who still held his one. She held her one too, the brown direwolf that had boldly crawled onto her lap only minutes earlier. They were about to set off again, to Winterfell, when Jon stopped, asking if they heard what he had.

"There," Jon spun his horse around and galloped back to the bridge. He knelt by the direwolf that Lyla was so keenly fascinated with and then rode back. "He must have crawled away from the others."

"Or maybe driven away." Father gruffed, ridding off again.

"An albino," Greyjoy observed. "This one will die even faster than the others."

Lyla shot him a hard stare and he averted his eyes. Jon mimicked the look, only his was more chilling- through his hair his eyes looked as tough as Valeryian Steel. "This one belongs to me."

* * *

"You did better than Robb his first time around- seeing a man die that is." Theon brought it up nonchalantly, riding up beside Lyla and ruffling the fur of the direwolf she struggled to kept hold of as they rode back to Winterfell.

She smiled and nodded, holding the pup close to her. "I remember you told me that he flinched. Father didn't like that, I'm sure."

Theon laughed. He always laughed, and it comforted Lyla Stark to no end- she could hate everyone and everything in the world and still find comfort in his laugh. "Your lord father was bothered, but not mad. He's never been mad at any of _you_."

Lyla playfully shoved his shoulder with her free hand as they pulled up to the Winterfell gates. "He's never been mad at you either, _Greyjoy_. Don't seek my pity."

He smiled at her shove and as he dismounted his stallion he grasped his chest and theatrically gasped. "You wound me, my lady!"

"What a ghastly assumption!" She teased, faking an equally as theatrical gasp. "I'm a Lady, Lord Greyjoy, I couldn't dare hurt a fly!" She handed her pup to Jory and slid from the saddle, then plucked it from his hands and kissed its nose.

Robb was beside her then, direwolves in both hands, and smirked. "If Theon doesn't protest that I certainly do." He tapped to where she elbowed him earlier with a direwolf pup and Lyla rolled her eyes, their blue matching her brother's exactly. While she had the Tully eyes, her dark brown curls were of the wild North, her height and slimness also northern. Robb on the other hand was all Tully, from the ringlets of auburn atop his head to the bulky strength that seethed from him.

"You were asking for that, and I've got half a mind to do it again." She loved teasing her brothers, and the freedom that donned with being a part of the elder group of boys, Robb, Theon, and Jon, made her constantly smile.

"Alright!" Robb raised his hands, full from the pups, in surrender. "But best you don't bring this up to Arya or Sansa, Lyla, well at least Sansa. She'll rat you out faster than you could say Winterfell."

Lyla smiled. Sansa was a good little lady, her looks just as Tully as Robb's and she was as sweet as the lemoncakes she loved so much- but Sansa was southern at heart, always dreaming of knights and flowers and songs. No doubt she'd be repulsed by her elder sister's latest stunt and tell her Septa. "I'll not tell them, Robb. Though I cannot speak for Theon. He's such a flirt with that Jeyne Poole, I'm sure one thing would slip or another from his tongue. And you know how girls gossip."

She was only jesting, of course, and Theon grinned wickedly. "Words aren't the only thing my tongue slip around when I'm with Jeyne."

She opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by a distant cry, "Direwolves!"

The younger Starks ran up to Robb and Lyla with wondrously bright eyes. Arya and Rickon took theirs from Jon, and Sansa her from Robb. They ran around with them and played with them like the sweet children they were, even Robb was parading his new pup around. They were fiercely sweet pups with equally as interesting names; Arya named hers Nymeria, Sansa hers Lady, Rickon's became Shaggydog, Robb's Grey Wind, Jon's was Ghost, but Bran's brows furrowed.

"Lyla, what if I never think of a name for him." Bran sighed, watching as his pup spun around hers.

"You'll think of something Bran," She assured him, squeezing his hand. Her eyes moved to her own little wolf, as nameless as Bran's, and smiled. "We'll both think of something."

* * *

"The King? He's coming here, to _Winterfell_?" Lyla's eyebrow was raised and she locked her suspicious Tully blue eyes on her father's own Stark gray.

He shrugged and nodded, her mother pursing her lips. "He's coming to ask your lord father to be Hand in place of Jon Arryn."

"What's happened to Lord Arryn?" Robb asked, pacing the room once more before sitting beside Lyla in a thickly cushioned chair that matched her own.

"He's dead, you half wit, why else would he be replaced?" Lyla snapped, shutting up after she met her mother's ice hard eyes.

Eddard sighed and slumped further into his chair across the table, less padded, more wooden. "I've not accepted to anything yet, don't worry."

"I heard he's bringing half the capitol." Said Sansa under her breath, looking into the fire that roiled across the room.

Catelyn raised her brow. "Where did you hear that, Sansa?"

"Jeyne Poole, no doubt." Lyla grumbled. She hated idle gossip, even more so when it was about pointless things, though it seemed everything that was gossiped was pointless.

"Lyla."

"All they do is gossip, no wonder she's so oblivious to the real world-"

"_Lyla_."

She snapped her eyes up to her mother's still icy glare. Sighing, she lazily looked towards her sister, who sat on the other side of the room beside Arya, both of their direwolves warming their laps. "I'm so _very_ sorry, Sansa, that you have to gossip so much."

"Enough Lyla." It was her father who spoke then. "Apologize to your sister."

"I'm sorry." She grumbled, but the disapproval that was evident in her father's eyes made her look at her sister genuinely apologetic. "I am sorry, Sansa. I'm just tired. Might I be excused, Father? If that is all?"

Ned waved his consent, Catelyn nodding her approval. Robb followed her out, along with their new little pets, and they found Jon standing out in the yard, training as always. Because he was the one reminder of Lord Eddard Stark's only fault of honor, Catelyn _hated_ him. Despised him with all her might. But poor Jon… He didn't _ask_ to be born, nor a bastard at that. It wasn't his fault. But because of his birth, he was always sparing or shooting arrows or practicing alone out in the yard to hide from the disapproval that Lady Stark seemed to save just for him. It was one of many things Lyla and her mother fought over.

"Jon!" Lyla called, waving. He looked over his shoulder and smiled, staying his blade and closing the distance between them.

"Lyla, Robb." He greeted them, seeming to look at his siblings through his so-very-dark curls. Ghost stared at them with dark eyes, respectful, but curious. _Awfully humane, for a direwolf_, Lyla thought. He sat silently, though his siblings ran over to him, licking his cheeks and yapping delightedly.

Robb rolled his eyes, though not playfully. He hated the unfaltering formality that was Jon, but that was just his nature. "The King is riding to Winterfell to take our lord father as Hand."

Lyla didn't miss that he said _take_, honestly, and probably truthfully, assuming that King Robert Baratheon would never take no as an answer. "Sansa said he was dragging along half of the capitol."

Jon raised his brows and hmph'ed. "I see."

"And Ly bit Sansa's head off in there about gossiping, shame she's gossiping herself."

Lyla knew his tone was mocking but she still didn't like it. "_Shut up_, Robb. It's not like _you_ don't complain on and on about how you wished she'd get those songs out of her head and see the truth of life. I don't see _you_ stepping up and saying anything about it."

Robb raised his hands in surrender for the second time that day, though this time he was direwolf free, and Lyla couldn't help but smile sorely. "Sorry Lyla."

She sighed. "_I'm_ sorry. Probably still just mad. I'm going to bed, goodnight brothers." They didn't stop her as she made to leave and she lay in bed that night with her direwolf beside her, curled up and snoring softly. "Goodnight, you." She said lightly, letting sleep take her.

_*Yes, finally I'm putting this idea on here... I've always had an unwavering love for Jaime, and he deserves his very own Stark... I hope this story will be enjoyed by all of you, my doves! I appreciate the reviews, as they give me incentive, though not as much as I appreciate and love you, my dear readers. I hope you enjoy the story and your evening! :)_


	2. Chapter 2

Lyla hadn't been able to sleep, ultimately gaining probably an hours worth before giving up and dressing. The King would be arriving in the afternoon, and perhaps the excitement of it was what deprived her of dreaming. Her direwolf had been equally as restless, but sat vigil at her side while she ran a brush through her unruly curls.

"Not out riding, yet?"

She turned and smiled, seeing her father standing at her doorway. He looked as solemn as ever, grey eyes unyielding. "With the King arriving mother forbade it, though I rather disagree. It's preposterous! Morrow will get fat from being cooped up for so long!"

Ned smiled at her humor. "Don't be too upset, you've got your wolf with you at least."

"Those southerners will piss themselves." Lyla grinned and set her brush down, patting her little pup between the ears.

"Have you named her yet?" Asked her father, closing distance between them and scratching the wolf's back as he sat on the foot of her bed.

To be honest, in the two weeks she'd had the pup, she'd not given a single thought on its name. She simply called it _you_ or _girl_. "Not a clue. It'll come in time, though." She noticed a scrap of paper in Ned's hand and raised a brow. "News from the King?"

He looked down at the paper and then shook his head, brown hair dancing about him. "No, it's nothing. We'll talk later, alright?"

"Of course, father." She was disappointed that he wouldn't tell her what the note was, but shrugged it off. Not everything was meant to be shared. "Come on you," She murmured to the little brown wolf, tying a cape around her shoulders and making her way down to the main hall.

Sansa and Arya were already there, along with Bran and Jon. "Where are Robb and Rickon?" Lyla asked as she neared them, taking a seat by Bran and mussing up his hair.

"Rickon is with mother and Robb and Theon are training." Arya shrugged, gulping down some milk.

Septa Mordane, who Lyla hadn't seen sitting by Sansa until she spoke, glowered. "Arya, you're a lady of Winterfell. Must you gobble your milk and your food like such a beast?"

Sansa nodded in agreement to Septa and Arya rolled her eyes. "Septa, why don't you go dress. I'll see to the girls." Lyla turned to see her mother smiling with Rickon at her hip, tugging lightly on her Tully red curls.

"Yes, my lady." Septa said, excusing herself and leaving the hall to change.

"Subtle, mother." Lyla commented, lips forming their usual grin.

Catelyn laughed and sat to Lyla's left, Rickon greedily grabbing a glass of milk and burping after the cup was empty. "Rickon." Mother warned, raising her brow at him.

"May I be excused?" He asked, his voice so innocent in contrary to his monstrous, yet sweet, little personality. Still, Catelyn nodded her consent and watched him go off with Bran, who also was excused.

"You come and all the Stark children flock like pigeons." Lyla japed, looking to Arya as she ran off to join Jon, who left as soon as Mother was seated. Sansa looked to be about done with her breakfast but stayed, like the proper woman that Lyla and Arya would never be, until everyone at the table had finished.

Catelyn smiled and gently ran a hand through her daughter's rusty brown curls. "You used to run off like that too. You've always been your father's girl more than mine, but I cannot fault you for that. He always was softest to you."

Lyla rolled her eyes and leaned against her mother's shoulder. "I'm your girl too, mother, don't fret." Straightening up, she shoveled some bites of egg and potato into her mouth and grabbed an apple before asking permission to be excused.

"Go on, my little wolf girl." Catelyn laughed, biting into a piece of toast.

* * *

The practice yard was bitterly cold, enough so to turn Lyla's nose pink and her cheeks pinker. She didn't mind though, no true northerner did. The smell of trees made Lyla want to curse her mother's wishes and ride off to the Wolfswood on Morrow regardless, but she leaned against a post and watched Robb and Theon swing steel at each other, mindlessly eating her apple.

"Don't wait for him to make a move, Robb, go for it!" She shouted, free hand cupped over her mouth so they could hear her over the sounds of the chandeliers being hoisted to the ceiling in the main hall.

Robb took a swing at Theon and smacked his back right thigh with the flat of his blade, causing him to fall and roll. "Fuck, Stark!" He cursed. "And damn it, Lyla, don't give him advice!"

The two Starks were laughing then, Robb giving Lyla a wink before Theon sliced at him, the blade barely scraping her brother's breastplate before he jumped away.

"Hold your blade arm closer, Theon. It'll give you more control." She called out, Theon drawing his arm closer to him immediately and successfully blocking a swing from Robb.

Bran and Rickon ran across the field with wood swords, battling as though it were the Rebellion all over again. Lyla remembered Old Nan telling her the story of how the Rebellion began.

"_Robert's Rebellion, they call it." The crone crowed. "A true man, King Robert. An old friend of your father's. They fought together, you know."_

_Lyla, as impatient as any five year old would be, rolled her eyes. "The story Nan, get to the story!"_

"_They fought endlessly, battling steel on steel, blood on blood. All for your aunt Lyanna. Poor child, spirited away by Rhaegar Targaryen as though he owned her. Taken from her room, plucked from her bed! The very bed and room that you now occupy. It lasted nearly two years and thousands died- including your uncle and grandfather, at the commands of King Aerys."_

"_The Mad King." Lyla whispered, blue eyes wide with awe. "Go on, go on!"_

_Old Nan smiled and nodded. "The Mad King he was called, truly an evil man. Do you remember who it was that slayed him, girl?"_

_Lyla jumped up, stabbing into the air as quick as her young arm could. "Ser Jaime Lannister! He stabbed him in the back like a valiant knight, saving everyone from the fire! I want to be a knight one day. Bold and brave and chivalrous. I'll be a good knight, like Ser Jaime."_

Even though time went on, and she learned of all that happened during the Rebellion, she still idolized Jaime Lannister in a way. Even though he might not have killed the King valiantly, but he did save the Realm from the fire.

"Lyla?"

She snapped her head up and smiled to Jon, who looked mildly concerned. "Sorry, I was lost in thought."

"It would seem so…" He raised a brow but shrugged, leaning on the other side of the post. Bran and Rickon had ran off somewhere with their sticks though Robb and Theon remained.

Theon looked over to them as Robb got to his feet- another blow from Theon, Lyla observed. "How about it, Lyla? Want to hit your brother?" His arm was outstretched, sword hilt facing her.

She seriously thought about it and was about to say yes when her mother, who she didn't realize was standing over the balcony above them, spoke for her. "No, Theon."

"I'm sorry, my Lady. I did not see you there." Theon looked at his feet and recoiled his arm.

"If it were any other day, Theon, I'd say yes." Lyla called, smiling at him. He seemed to brighten up at that, her mother rolling her eyes.

"Lyla, come walk with me." Her mother called, descending from the stairs that led to the yard and waiting.

Lyla looked to all three boys and curtsied ridiculously. "My Lords, I fear my time has come to a close. I bid you all-"

"_Lyla_."

She sighed and waved to them, ears turning hot when she heard their laughter as her mother took her arm and led her away.

"You'll be on your best behavior when the King arrives. No swordfighting with the boys, at not least while the royal family is here."

Lyla looked up at her mother through the hair that the wind blew into her face, frowning. "No riding, no cursing, no swordfighting… Next you'll say no talking to Jon, or something ridiculous like that."

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that…"

"_Mother_!" Lyla looked exasperated and defiantly crossed her arms, shaking her head. "How _dare_ you. He's my _brother_! Seven hells I wont talk to him!"

Her mother's eyes wavered for as short a moment as her lip quivered. "We'll talk later."

Lyla glared at her mother as she walked off, head held high. "She's a bloody fool if she thinks I'm not talking to my brother." She scoffed, skulking to the stables to vent to Morrow.

"Bran?" She furrowed her brows, narrowing her eyes to make out the figure that was scaling the wall that overlooked the road. "Bran!"

Bran finished climbing down from the wall and hopped from the stable roof to the ground. "The King is coming! He's almost here!"

Lyla smiled down at her brother. He might have been a dangerously obscene boy when it came to climbing, but he was always safe. "Run off and tell father, then. Oh, and Bran!" He was already running off but turned. "Don't let mother catch you."

* * *

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" Lyla chanted. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

In the heat of it all, being so utterly ashamed of and pissed off at her mother, Lyla took comfort in her stallion Marrow's stall, complaining to him about everything until she, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, fell asleep on the stacks of hay. It wasn't until the stableboy came to her and shook her awake that she realized she even dozed off.

"The King's come, m'lady." He told her as she jolted up, ripping hay from her curls.

She ran as quick as she could, panting the whole way. When she reached the courtyard, Lyla had never felt so alienated. There the King was, greeting her father, not a single spot open for her in the Stark line, Catelyn's cold blue eyes like daggers. She pulled out one last piece of hay from her hair and ran her hands over her skirts to smooth them as she steadied her breathing and scooted in between Robb and Sansa.

"I knew we were a girl short." The King jested, placing a firm grip on her. He didn't truly see her until after he'd spoken, and his eyes popped a little. "Looks like Lyanna, this one."

Father looked at the King with sadder eyes then. "She's my eldest daughter, Your Grace. Lyla."

"Lyla." Robert repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. "Sounds like Lyanna."

A thousand hours could not have prepared Lyla for such an ominous greeting, and she looked away from his stare. "I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace."

Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness." He ripped his eyes from hers then, looking to Eddard. "Where are all your _people_?"

"Likely they were too shy to come out," Ned jested. "Kings are a rare sight in the North."

The King gazed at her again and Lyla shifted uncomfortably. "Take me to the crypt, Ned. I would pay my respects."

"We've traveled a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait." Lyla didn't even notice the Queen before then, but now her eyes flickered to where she stood. She was a tall woman, thin for the three children she'd had, with high cheekbones to compliment her Lannister green eyes. Her hair was as golden as the sun, and she was dressed as though she were bitterly cold, even the colors of her garb, oranges and reds and pinks, warm. _Bet she's never stepped foot in the North_, Lyla mused.

Robert glared at his wife for a moment, and Lyla observed that the Queen's twin, the man she idolized as a child, was at her side, his hand gracing her elbow to silence her. When no more was said, Robert and Ned went off, the Queen walking up to Mother, who bowed and smiled, introducing the children.

Lyla didn't hear her though, her eyes set on Jaime Lannister. He was tall, like his sister, but taller, with light skin and thick set brows that weren't unbecoming of him. His hair was golden and his eyes were greener than any grass Lyla had seen. His eyes wandered to her and she immediately looked to her feet, bowing as the Queen passed by her, muttering a, "Your Grace."

"Where's the Imp?" Arya whispered boldly, tugging at Lyla's skirts and staring from the Lannister twins to the Baratheon children, all smiles with green eyes and golden hair.

Sansa hissed, "Shut up." And Lyla shrugged.

The Queen, Cersei, looked over to Jaime. "Where _is_ our brother? The little monster…"

Mother had started walking off with the Queen, which meant to Lyla that it was time to leave. While Sansa stayed and walked with her mother, and Rickon as well, she, Robb, and Bran went off to the training yard, Jon joining them from the back of the crowd with Theon. Arya had run off on her own, not telling where she was headed to.

"Why were you so late?" Robb asked her once they reached the yard.

Theon pulled a sole surviving strand of hay from the back of her head and grinned. "Sleeping in the stables, were we?"

"Shut up." Lyla rolled her eyes and snatched the hay from Theon, tossing it behind her shoulder. "And I wasn't late, everyone else was simply early."

Robb raised a brow. "Even the King?"

"Your mother will throw a fit." Jon added, folding his arms.

Lyla shrugged and sat on a chair by the fence, brown ringlets tumbling over her shoulders. "I have a perfectly good excuse." They all looked at her, waiting, and she grinned wickedly. "I was snatched up by a dragon. His scales were venomously black, his eyes so red that a _million _men's blood couldn't have done it justice. He swept me up and spirited me away, only I tamed him and flew him back _just_ in time to greet the King."

"Works for me." Theon shrugged, and Robb looked absolutely amused. Jon rolled his eyes but smiled, and Bran looked utterly interested.

"How'd you tame it?" He asked, blue eyes wide.

Lyla looked around the group of elder boys and they all shrugged, taking seats around her while Bran crawled onto her lap. He was surprisingly light for an eight year old. "At first he was relentless," She began. "He set me atop the tallest mountain he could find and wrapped around me like a cat. I knew better than to let him have me, so I waited until he slumbered to climb onto his scalding hot neck and smack him awake. He didn't know what hit him! And before I could say "Go!" He flew up into the air and swung past Winterfell, where I slipped off of him and landed in a pile of hay, just in time to catch the King."

Bran looked astounded, mouth gaped open. "More, Lyla, more!"

She laughed then and kissed his brow before sliding him from her lap and stretching her legs. "Later, little one."

Her direwolf sat at her side quietly the whole time, but suddenly perked up, running off. "Girl!" Lyla called, but it didn't return. The boys looked at her confused and she took off running after it.

It didn't take long to find her, sitting atop someone and licking them profusely. "_You_, come _here_!" Lyla called, and this time the direwolf obeyed, bouncing back to her master happily. "Stay." She commanded, and the wolf sat.

"I'm sorry, she's just-" Lyla stopped when she saw the man who was knocked over.

Jaime Lannister was sitting up already, dusting his hair off by running his fingers through it. He looked up at her and smiled charmingly, "Don't worry about it. I've had worse."

"I'm sure." She managed, offering him her hand and helping him up.

When he stood, Lyla realized how small she was. He must have been at least a foot taller than her, if not more. He seemed to notice it too, smirking. "You're the late Stark, are you not?"

Lyla rolled her eyes. "I wasn't _late_-"

"We were early?" He finished, raising a brow, still smirking.

"Precisely." She smiled too then. "I trust you're settling in well, ser? Is your room accommodating enough?"

Jaime nodded as he began dusting off his clothes. "Everything is perfect. How is it that the castle is so _warm_, though? I mean, it's dreadful out here."

"It's warm enough to me out here." Lyla mumbled, then remembered she was speaking to a southerner and shrugged. "The castle was build on a hotspring. It's always been warm."

"Interesting…" He knelt, patting the ground before him. "May I?"

Lyla noticed he was staring at her direwolf and smiled, "Come here, girl."

The direwolf's brown eyes glowed and she pranced to Jaime as he patted the ground, and then her redbrown fur. "Have you named her?"

"No." She smiled down at the wolf and stroked her. Their fingers touched for a moment and he looked up at her with that damn smirk.

She pulled her hand away and kept her eyes off of him, focusing on the wolf. He shrugged and buried his hands in her fur. "Pretty, pretty girl. You should name her something southern. She's warm."

"Hells with that. She's a direwolf, northern." Her grin grew back as she patted the wolf's flank.

He laughed and straightened himself, the wolf taking its place beside Lyla's side. "You're rather bold, considering you're speaking to the Kingslayer." She caught him wince when he said _Kingslayer._

Lyla shrugged, "You saved everyone from the fire. I don't think you a bad person."

"Really?" He looked down on her and she nodded. "How apt." He folded his arms and his green eyes bore her blue ones for a dangerously long time before she looked away.

"You should get some rest, ser. You've traveled far and there's going to be a feast tonight, in the King's honor."

"Yes, of course." He smiled and stepped closer to pat the direwolf between the ears. "Good day, my lady."

Lyla watched as he went, smiling stupidly. She'd just met the man she idolized as a child, and still at some level at her five and ten years, and their hands had touched. _Gods, don't be a silly girl like Sansa now_. She rolled her eyes and turned, seeing Robb, Theon, and Jon with raised brows.

"Shut up." She groaned.

Theon was the first to speak, laughing in the way that comforted her. "You two seemed comfortable."

"Too comfortable." Jon roused.

Robb nodded in agreement. "I didn't like it. He's the Kingslayer, Lyla."

"Not to me." Lyla laughed and spun so her back was to them, waving behind her. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a feast to get ready for."


	3. Chapter 3

"It's a _dress_, of course I look silly."

"Arya, you don't look silly."

"I look like _Sansa_." Arya wrinkled her nose and Lyla rolled her eyes. They'd been at it for hours, the two Stark girls, but it wasn't growing old. Not one bit. "Besides, I don't see why I have to wear a dress. It's not like they've never seen a girl in breeches before."

Lyla sat her sister down and began brushing through her hair. _The Queen surely hasn't._ She sighed. "You look like our aunt, not Sansa. She looks like a Tully- but you? You're a Stark through and through."

Arya smiled to herself then, eying her sister through the looking glass. "You look more like her than I do. Aunt Lyanna. Everyone says so at least."

"Father said you have her eyes. So pretty and grey. Mine are Tully, not Stark"

It was no contest; Arya by far was her favorite sister. While she still loved Sansa with all her heart, the brave, bold, courageous Arya was so much like herself as a child that she couldn't help but simply adore her.

Arya's smile held while Lyla braided and twisted her hair into a northern styled bun. "You look good." She complimented, a hand on her sister's shoulder.

"Oh shut up." Her sister blushed, and then turned to her. "Jon told me you were talking to Jaime Lannister."

Lyla certainly wasn't expecting that. "I was." She replied, honestly and true.

Arya's eyes glittered. "_Really_? Did you ask him what it was like to fight? Or how it felt to hold a real sword?"

"_I_ could tell you that much." Lyla mused, patting her sister's back lightly until she slipped from the chair. "He asked about my direwolf."

Arya rolled her eyes. "_I _could have asked you that much."

"Come on now. Mother will be cross if we're not there on time." While Lyla was already on bad terms with the Lady of Winterfell, Arya was not, and she wouldn't jeopardize anything for Arya.

They walked through the halls quickly, being joined by Sansa and Rickon, who clung to Lyla's blood red skirt for life it seemed. "Come here, you." She murmured, holding her brother to her hip and kissing his cheek.

"Lyla, will you dance with me at the feast?" He asked, looking up at her through his hair in a way that reminded her of Jon. She then grew cross and narrowed her eyes as she remembered how her mother ruled out every chance of Jon joining the family to eat in the feast.

_"He's a Stark too, by blood if not by name!"_

_ "Lyla, I'll hear no more. The King has born many bastards, and it would make the Queen uneasy."_

Lyla wanted to curse her mother then, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She knew that Catelyn looked for any possible reason to keep Jon from the family, and it roused anger in the eldest Stark girl that nobody could calm- save Morrow, her direwolf, and maybe Theon or Robb. She couldn't voice her anger to Jon, he always took her mother's side, as if looking for her acceptance.

She was brought back to reality when Rickon tugged a strand of her hair. "Lyla!"

"Yes, wild wolf. I'll dance with you." She laughed and set him down, watching him run to where their mother stood at the end of the hall. She was reluctant on seeing her mother, and the way that Catelyn looked at her- _such ice in her eyes,_ _it's a surprise she's southern_- made her feel even more so.

"Lyla, you look beautiful." Eddard stood tall, wearing his best clothes- all grey and black and sapphire. "And you, girls, so pretty." Arya hugged him and Sansa, as ladylike as ever, blushed and curtsied.

Catelyn smiled at the girls and kissed them, Rickon too. She gave them their praises, and then Bran and Robb too as they arrived. All the while, avoiding her eldest daughter like the grey plague.

"Ned, still in grey I see." Bellowed the King as he neared. He was draped in fancy velvets and furs, his crown looking as light as a feather the way he held his head so high. Still yet, his stomach was robust and his beard too scruffy, but Lyla liked him. He was a good man, she could already tell. "Lyla, you look more like your aunt every time I see you."

"Your Grace," She bowed and smiled up at him, "I'm honored."

Robert laughed and hugged her as though he'd known her for her whole five-and-ten years. "Don't have to act so proper, girl. I know how wryly you are."

Lyla gasped theatrically, "How ever did you discover that, Your Grace."

"Ravens suffice, girl." He said, winking as he took Catelyn's arm, pampering her with praise of how well she held up over the years.

Queen Cersei was standing beside him the whole time and yet Lyla had seemed to miss her yet again. _Always her husband's shadow_, she observed. The Queen was adorned in her maiden House colors, red and gold and far too extravagant for such a small feast.

Eddard took the Queen's arm and led her into the hall after Mother had gone, Sansa and the other three little Starks walking in together, and Robb looked his sister up and down from raised brows.

"You cleaned up nice. Is that red? I've never seen that color on you before."

Lyla rolled her eyes, looking down at her dress. It was one her mother had sent her the night before, though gave no word. The gown was nice enough, fitting like a glove in all the right places and draping out at the bottom. It was lined with black rather Lannister gold and her sleeves were lace, though they could hardly be seen through the masses of thick brown curls that covered them. "You flatter me, Robb."

Theon walked in then, looking at her the way Robb had. "Has this anything to do with your encounter with the Ser Jaime Lannister?" He mused.

"Both of you so quick to judge? Who's to say that I've only just realized that red is a good color on me?" She jested, twirling in the gown slowly.

"It _is_ rather becoming, if I may be so bold." Lyla stopped spinning and stepped back quickly when she saw Jaime Lannister smiling in front of her. She could feel Robb and Theon's stares hot on the back of her head, sensing their uneasiness at his smirk.

"Ser." She said quietly. He looked dapper, as one could only expect, in fine velvets and furs, all warm color with a pale cloak about his shoulders.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Robb and Theon give her wavered looks before turning and walking into the hall. Upon returning her gaze to Jaime, she noticed he'd not taken her eyes from her.

"May I?" He held his arm out for her and she slipped her own through it. "I wasn't lying, you know. You do look lovely. And red suits you."

Lyla smiled. If he was lying, he didn't show it. "I admit, I've always felt too stiff in silk." She gestured her hand down the length of the gown and laughed.

Jaime shrugged. "You don't look it." They entered the hall then, and Lyla marveled at it. The chandeliers were full of thick yellow candles and there were banners of grey and black and green everywhere. People danced and sang and drank, some eating and some simply enjoying the company.

She hadn't noticed her father come up to speak to her until Jaime spoke. "I hear we might be neighbors soon. I hope it's true."

He still smirked, but his tone made Lyla uneasy. "Yes, King Robert has honored me with his offer."

Lyla raised a brow and slipped her hand from Jaime's arm to cross her own. "What offer?"

She must not have spoken loud enough for they didn't seem to hear. "I'm sure we'll have a tournament to celebrate your new title. If you'll accept. It'll be good to have you in the field. Competition's a bit stale." So her father had accepted the position as Hand of the King?

Her eyes shot to Eddard, who looked at her with his ever somberness for a moment, eyes back to the Lannister that had his arms lowered since the absence of her hand. "I don't fight in tournaments."

"No?" He leaned in to her father's ear and whispered of him getting too old for it. She stared angrily at him then. Father wasn't _old_. Sure he was graying and getting thicker, but that was aging- much different than being _old._

"I don't fight in tournaments because when I fight a man for real, I don't want him to know what I can do." Eddard explained.

Jaime's unyielding smirk grew then. "Well said." Her father raised a brow at her and she looked down, feeling his gaze for a moment until he turned on his heels and went to sit by the King.

She was about to leave too then, but Jaime caught her arm softly. "Sorry about that. Just curious about the new Hand. I didn't mean to be so-"

"No need to apologize, Ser Jaime." She gave him a fake smile before turning again- gasping. A real gasp, not a hint of false theatrics. "Uncle Benjen!" She cried, running and hugging him, arms snaking around his neck. "I missed you!"

Her uncle, who looked almost a twin to her father only younger and darker haired, smiled wolfishly. "And you, my wild one." He kissed her forehead and raised a brow at her choice of gown. "Summer colors have never suited the Starks, and yet you pull it off so well."

She blushed, as she so often did for her uncle, and twirled for him. "Why thank you, uncle. I had it made _just_ for you."

He rolled his eyes playfully at her jest and placed his hand on her shoulder. It was warm, and she assumed he'd just taken off his thick leather gloves. "Where's your father?" He asked, and Lyla looked to where the King sat, kissing a thick waistsed serving wench with dark northern hair and coal eyes. _The poor Queen_, she thought softly, looking her way then. The Queen's eyes were hot on her husband though, and Lyla sighed. _She'll never be loved by him like my aunt was_.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yes?" Benjen smiled and her eyes were on his again as she smiled in return. He left then, leaving Lyla's eyes to linger to where Jon sat in the back of the room.

"Jon!" She called, waving as she strode to him, taking a seat across the table and grabbing a cup of wine. They were only allowed one per feast, the Stark children, so she would make this last.

His grey eyes met her blue ones as hard as stone. "Your mother will throw a fit, seeing you back here with the bastard."

"Shut up, Jon. You're my _brother_." She retorted, sipping the wine tastefully. It warmed her throat and the sweetness made her want to hum. "Have you danced yet?"

Jon shook his head, near-black ringlets swaying. "Nor will I."

"Oh you won't?" Lyla grinned challengingly at him and took him firmly by the wrist. "I think I can change your mind."

She swung him around the room like a couple of children, and men and women alike laughed at them, jesting that Lyla was leading like Jon should have been. Jon didn't like that, though, and took her hands firmly, waltzing her and spinning her around the room, worries melting away.

Robb cut in, Theon after him, and little Rickon after him. "I told you I'd dance with you, little one." Lyla grinned and lifted him into the air, assaulting his cheeks with kisses.

"Lady Lyla," Rickon howled like a wolf as she set him down, looking up and raising a brow.

"Ser Jaime. You're persistent tonight."

He folded his arms, furrowing his brows. "Is that so terrible? I thought we were getting along well enough."

"Not when you insult my father. Now if you'll excuse me…" Lyla waved to Sansa and Arya, then turned on her heels and walked from the hall.

Immediately fresh air filled her lungs, and she realized how calm it was out in the yard. She traced her finger on a post and leaned her head on it, inhaling the scent of the wood.

"You're cross with me."

"Gods you are_ truly_ persistent."

"What did I say to offend you?"

Lyla spun around, arms folded. "You called my father _old_. Too old to battle, if I understood correctly. Or to defend himself, take your pick... Well you know what? You're old too."

Jaime's eyes widened, and Lyla could swear it was from amusement. "First I'm insulting and now I'm old? Tell me again, who is offending who?"

"You're only a couple years younger than my lord father." She pointed out. Her direwolf came around the corner then and jumped on Lyla, licking her face. When she stood on her hind legs, the wolf was as tall as her master, only a month old. "Hey girl." She cooed, scratching her ears.

"You're bold." Jaime observed, patting the direwolf's back. "A rare quality to find in a lady."

Lyla shrugged and rolled her eyes. "I'm not a lady."

"Of course you are. Just not a practiced one it seems."

"I guess I don't have a desire to please anyone but myself."

"Another rare quality. You're turning out to be a rather unique rose."

Lyla wrinkled her nose. "I'm not a rose. I'd rather be a wolf than a rose."

Jaime's smirk returned and he raised a brow. "Wouldn't you just."

Their eyes held for a while and it took Lyla's wolf shifted on its paws, whining, for them to look away from each other. "You're not forgiven." She warned, though caught her lips tugging into a smile.

"I suppose if I'm to stay here for so long, I might as well get on your good side." Jaime sighed lightly. "And I guess _asking_ for forgiveness won't do?"

Lyla shook her head, trying to blow away hair that fell in her eyes away without avail. Before she knew it, Jaime's hand was at her face, brushing the curls behind her ear. She stepped back, brow arched. "I should go."

Jaime frowned. It was the first time she'd seen him frown, and probably would be the last, so she absorbed it; the way his forehead wrinkled and his eyes dimmed. "Sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"Goodnight, Ser Jaime." Lyla turned her back to him and began walking up the stairs to the balcony, and then to her room- not being able to help the smile that was painted on her face.

"Don't you look like a bloody happy idiot." Theon sat on the end of the balcony by the door of his room.

"You're not at the feast?" Lyla raised a brow and tried to wipe the grin from her lips, but couldn't. Jaime Lannister had just- What had he done? Brushed hair behind her ear? She bit her lip. Was she really being so… so _Sansa-like_ about this?

Theon shrugged, "Too hot. Too loud."

Lyla sat beside him and sighed. "Indeed."

"I heard you and the Kingslayer talking."

Her eyes widened and she faced him. "What did you hear?"

"Enough to be worried." Theon's eyes were sharp and dark. "Don't go messing around with a man like that. They're no good. Haven't you heard the rumors? About him and the Queen?"

Of course she had, who hadn't? She glared at her father's ward, but he was unyielding. Annoyingly so. "Theon…"

"They say she's a brotherfucker. That her childr-"

"_Theon_! No more." Lyla's eyes were venomous, the blue turning darker with every second. "I'm going to bed. You better not be so rude when I wake up, or I might just have to clobber you."

Though she was angry, she couldn't help but see the laughter in his eyes at her boldness, and let herself smile, however little it was. "Goodnight Theon." She whispered, standing and opening the door that led into the castle, letting herself in.

Warmth embraced her quickly, wrapping itself around her and sucking away the cold she didn't know was suffocating her. She pulled pins from her hair and shook what little of it was contained with her fingers as she entered her room, the direwolf at her heels.

"You're a loyal girl, aren't you. Always following me about." Lyla grinned and kissed the pups nose as she slid from her silk gown into her sleeping shift. "Loyal to her Lyla." She mused, standing by the windowsill for a moment before retreating to her bed. The fur covers had never looked more inviting and she curled around them as fast as she could, sighing as she sunk into the feathery mattress. "Come on girl." She patted the bed beside her and the wolf bounced onto the furs, rolling around before cuddling around Lyla's feet. "Huh, rose." She laughed as she recalled Jaime calling her that and smiled, rubbing her wolf's neck. "Maybe I should call you rose. How about that?"

The wolf perked up and she laughed. "Well- Rose it is! Goodnight, little Rose." She murmured, yawning and allowing her weighted lids shut for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

"Relax your grip." Lyla instructed, biting into an apple.

"Like this?" Bran loosened his hold on the sword and began swinging at the practice dummy eagerly.

Lyla nodded, finishing the rest of her apple as her brother swung. Bran had been jabbing at the dummy for hours, before she was even awake, slashing and stabbing as though it were an enemy. Just as he was about to go in for another slice, the sword slipped from his hand and spun across the yard to Lyla's feet. "Whoa." She breathed, looking up at Bran.

He was frowning, kicking the dirt. "I'll never be any good."

"Oh Bran." Lyla murmured, picking up the sword and closing the distance between them, kneeling in front of him. "Bran you're a Stark of Winterfell. You're strong and brave and kind, and with practice," She placed the sword in his hand, curling his fingers around the pommel. "You'll be a great warrior."

Bran smiled then, blue eyes bright. "You really think so Lyla?"

"Of course I do, sweet brother." Lyla pulled him into a hug and kissed the top of his head before retreating back to her seat across the yard, under the balcony. "Try again, Bran."

Bran nodded and shook his sword arm out before attacking the dummy again. It was still barely past sunlight, the rays pouring over the hills like water. The sky was still dark, a deep rolling blue with pink seeping in from the western sunrise, and the birds were all asleep. Torches along the walls were still lit, their light making the castle glow, and aside from Bran's sword and Lyla's voice, there was an eerie, ringing silence.

Lyla was so concentrated on Bran's practice that she didn't notice anyone come up behind her. "Good morn, Lyla." They greeted, two voices melting into one.

She jumped a little and coughed before greeting them with a, "Good morn." never taking her eyes from her brother.

"So intent, Stark?"

From how snarky and light the comment sounded, Lyla guessed it was Theon Greyjoy. "He needs guidance just as much as you did as a boy. I remember sitting on the balcony with Septa Mordane, watching you practice with Robb and Jon. You weren't a very good swordsman back then, if I recall correctly."

She could feel Jon's smirk in his voice as he took his turn speaking. "She's right, Bran's faring better than you did at ten, Greyjoy."

Lyla spared them each a glance before returning her gaze to Bran, who was stabbing at the dummy mercilessly. "He's doing well, and he's doing it right, that's all that matters."

"You sure sound proud, Stark." Theon observed, taking the seat to her right and Jon to her left.

Lyla shrugged. "I am. Don't mess it up by being an ass. Have you forgotten my threat so soon, Theon?"

He laughed and patted her shoulder lightly. "You'll clobber me. Don't worry, I've no intentions on pissing you off today."

"You better not." Lyla's eyes swung over to where Robb was entering the yard with their father, Eddard.

"Good arm, Bran." Father praised, Robb nodding in agreement.

"Father, Robb, you've slept well I trust?" Lyla called, waving.

Robb smiled, "Wonderfully." Father simply shrugged, "I was up late."

Lyla nodded, knowing how long he must have stayed up with her mother for the feast. "Are you two headed to the stables?"

Eddard shook his head. "Not yet. The hunt isn't until midday."

"We're going to the main hall, would you like to join us?"

The thought of going into the main hall again so soon made Lyla shudder, remembering the strength of the wine she drank the night before and how her head was still pounding. Still, she was hungry, admitting in her mind that the apple she ate earlier wouldn't suffice for the whole morning. "Sure, Robb." She called, looking over to Bran. "Are you going to be alright here, brother?"

Bran nodded and Theon strode to his side. "I'll watch the little lordling, don't fret Stark."

"Jon, are you coming with?" She feared Jon would decline, in the event that he would meet Lady Stark in the hall, but instead he shrugged and stood, holding out his arm.

Lyla smiled and hooked her arm through his, purposefully walking far behind Robb and Father so they could talk alone. "Jon, did you see that Uncle Benjen is here?"

"Aye, I did."

"Did you speak with him? I mean, I'm sure you did… You're his favorite, after all."

Jon winced at that. He wasn't used to being the favorite, nor did he like it. It made him clam up and pale. "I spoke with him, yes."

"About what?"

He hesitated, looking down. "About me… Going to the Wall."

Lyla froze, yanking her arm from his. Blue eyes burned into grey for Gods knew how long before she finally spoke. "The Wall?" Her voice sounded more shaky than she wanted it to, but her eyes held.

Jon's eyes wavered. "I'm not meant to be in Winterfell. I'm not a Stark."

"Yes you are!" She protested, cursing her eyes as they watered. "You're a Stark by blood. A name doesn't define us, Jon, we define ourselves. You're more Stark than any of us here, save Father. You _can't_ go."

"I have to go. Here?" He swung his arm out and to showcase the castle. "Here is not where I belong. I don't feel like I'm meant to be here, and it's already too late for you to stop me, I'm sure Uncle Benjen has already spoken to Father by now."

Lyla wiped unshed tears with the back of her hand, standing her ground. "Jon, you're my brother…"

Jon swept her into a deep embrace, his arms wrapping around her waist tightly as her own arms clung around his neck. "I know. I'm sorry to leave you, but Winterfell isn't my place."

She dared not speak, lest tears begin to fall, and gave a stiff nod. She did understand, only she didn't want to. She knew her mother's cold hard glare had affected Jon throughout his whole six-and-ten years in Winterfell, and that he felt like an outcast, always being called the Stark's Bastard or simply bastard. _He deserves better than life here_, Lyla tried to convince herself as she slunk from his arms, the warmth that enveloped her from his hug recoiling back to him and leaving her colder than she'd ever been. "I love you Jon, you're my brother." She managed, sighing shakily. "I'll support you, even if I don't want to."

"I know." Jon held his arm back out and she took it, holding him closer now that she knew he was going to be leaving her- probably as soon as Uncle Benjen would.

The rest of the walk to the main hall was quiet, save the sounds of their direwolves trekking behind them. Rose was panting happily, but Ghost was as silent as ever.

The hall was still ornate, thick banners of grey and green and black hung all around, chandeliers still full of fat yellow candles. Some of the tables were taken out so there was more open space to walk about, Jon and Lyla sitting beside their father and brother as soon as they found their table. It was placed one across from the royal family's reserved table, which was decorated with long draping tapestries of red and gold, cushioned chairs with silk covers of the same color scheme placed strategically around it.

Something about the red on the tablecloth and chairs reminded Lyla of her dress the night before and then the night itself. She bit into a piece of hot buttered bread as she recalled the talk between Jaime and Eddard.

"Father, what offer did the King make you?"

Eddard, who was drinking some milk, arched a brow and swallowed. "You remember that?"

"Yes." She replied, stealing another bite from the roll. "So, what was it? Are you Hand now?"

Robb's Tully red brows met as Jon's Stark brown ones did. "What offer?" They asked in unison.

Father sighed and set down his goblet, rubbing his temples. "The King has proposed to make a match between Sansa and the crowned Prince Joffrey."

"Sansa is too young for marriage." Robb sounded uneasy, and looked it all the same as Lyla's eyes fell on him.

"I know." Eddard nodded. "And when I told him that, he said he had another match in mind."

"Who this time? Prince Tommen to Arya? Or maybe Princess Myrcella to Robb?" Lyla grinned wolfishly as Robb's cheeks pinkened.

"No, he suggested you and Jaime Lannister."

It was Lyla's turn to blush then, the tickling feel reaching from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her burning ears. "Oh." She mouthed more than whispered, biting her lip. She'd never really thought of marrying anybody, especially not Jaime Lannister, and the prospect of it made her nervous.

As if Eddard felt, or probably saw, her nerves, he placed a warm hand on her shoulder. "I've said nothing about either proposition. I was actually going to say no to both, but Robert is…"

"Robert is King, and he has his way." Robb finished, stabbing a chunk of deer and chewing it thoroughly, clearly on edge. "I don't like the idea of the Kingslayer bedding my sister."

Jon crossed his arms, turning to where, as if on cue, Jaime walked in with the Queen and the younger two of the three golden children. "I don't like the idea of it either."

"I already told you, I've said nothing on it." Ned sighed and stood. "Lyla, you should go sit in with Sansa and Arya today."

"Nonsense!" They all turned then to see the King standing behind them, hands firmly on his hips. "She'll be riding out with us. Go see to your horse, girl."

Lyla smiled to the King, despite the tickling feel in her stomach that made her want to run through the Wolfswood and think. "Yes, Your Grace."

* * *

After changing into a thick, dark green riding gown with gold lace sleeves and matching filigree stitching on the bodice, Lyla made her way to the stables. "Good morning." She greeted the stable boys who pulled her stallion Morrow from his stall for her. They smiled and greeted her back, but Lyla was too consumed in cleaning her horse by then to notice.

Morrow was a pretty thing, tall and strong with the darkest raven black mane she'd ever seen on a horse. His body was a deep golden tinted brown that faded black past the horse's knees and on it's muzzle. "Such a pretty boy." She murmured to him as she brushed through his mane softly, kissing his jaw.

A voice sounded, and Lyla's head snapped around. "What a lucky horse to have such a loving owner."

A dwarf stood before her, bi-colored eyes of black and green as wicked as his smirk. She wouldn't have guessed him a Lannister if it weren't for the ringlets of gold atop his head.

"Lord Tyrion." She let her arms rest to her side and she curtsied. "A pleasure to meet you, for I missed you at the feast."

He shrugged. "I didn't arrive until late, no doubt a girl like you would be in bed by the time I showed up."

She raised a brow. "You weren't at the gates with the King when he arrived either."

"You noticed? I thought I'd been so sneaky."

"Clearly not enough so."

Tyrion smiled and took a seat on a stool, resting his arms on the hay stacks behind him. "I hear that you and I might be related soon, though it's undecided if you'll be my goodsister or the sister of my goodniece."

"I hear the same." Lyla admitted, pulling the brush through Morrow's windcurled mane again.

"Well, don't you sound delighted." Tyrion jested.

She shrugged. "I have no say in whether or not the King would see that Ser Jaime and I are wed. Nor that of Sansa and Prince Joffrey."

Tyrion rubbed his naked jaw as though it were stubbled with hair. "Interesting that His Grace would relieve my brother from his duties in the Kingsguard to marry a girl who looks a ghost of his old lover."

"They weren't just lovers," Lyla nearly growled through a clenched jaw. "My aunt Lyanna was his bride-to-be. His betrothed. They were in love, but it wasn't scandalous."

"I didn't mean to offend you, my lady." He offered, "I was simply stating my opinion on the matter."

"I never asked your opinion on anything." She meant to refrain from being so vicious, but she couldn't stand when people belittled her aunt. Lyanna was a good woman, fierce and strong, and even though Lyla had never seen her or met her, she still loved her. Hells, she was named for her!

Tyrion shrugged again, standing. "No worries, my lady. I'll take my leave as not to rouse your fire again. Good luck on the hunt."

She watched him go and huffed as she combed through the mud patches on Morrow's flank before tossing a heavy green blanket over his back and strapping the saddle on. She was pulling his halter on when her father came in.

"He looks good, Lyla." He complimented, patting the horse's neck.

"Thank you." She smiled slightly at the praise as she buckled the reins to the halter. After a moment of silence she turned to face her father. "Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

Eddard nodded. "Lyla, you know I wouldn't force you into something you don't want to do, so I ask you… Do you want a way out of this engagement?"

"It's an engagement already?" She held back a gasp and looked to her feet. She hadn't the time to think on it exactly, and didn't know what to say.

"The King spoke to me after you and the boys left… But you only have to ask it of me if you want out. I've already asked Sansa, but she's-"

"She's to be married too? Seven hells." Lyla bit her lip and laced her fingers through Morrow's mane for support that she didn't know she needed. "Father, she's only eleven… I thought Starks and Lannisters hated each other?"

"Joffrey is a Baratheon." Eddard pointed out. "And sometimes it's better to bury the hatchet. To start anew."

Lyla's eyes found his then. "I don't know what I want."

"I'll give you some time. Tell me before we leave to King's Landing, though. That way I can spare you the journey if you're not to be marrying the Kingslayer."

"Don't call him the Kingslayer." Lyla blurted out before she could stop herself. Her father gave her a weary look and she looked down in turn, then back up with an arched brow. "King's Landing? So you are going to be Hand?"

"Aye. I'm taking the girls, and Bran too. Maybe you if you decide to go through with this…"

She nodded slowly, pulling herself into the saddle though her father's hands were out to help her. "I'll tell you what I think about it after the hunt."

Ned gave her a curt, almost somber nod before stepping out of her way as she smacked the reins and Morrow trotted from the stable.

* * *

"Fly!" She murmured into Morrow's ear once the hunting party began to depart, tapping her heels into his sides until he broke into a gallop. The hunt had just been called and Robb and Theon were riding with her father and Jory, while the King asked Lyla to ride with him and the southerners. She hadn't been accustomed to them since their arrival, but agreed, dodging the japes that suggested she would only slow them down because she was a woman, but she would prove them all wrong, she thought to herself with a grin curling on her lips.

As she spirited away, Lyla could taste the freedom on her tongue, feel it in her bones. They bolted into the Wolfswood, thundering hooves kicking up dust behind them. In that moment she didn't care about her mother's crude warning not to ride while the royal family was in Winterfell, she didn't care that her family was being split up and scattered in the winter wind, that the men were probably the most shocked they'd been in their entire lives to see her soar so fast, or even that she was supposedly engaged to Jaime Lannister. All she cared about in that moment was the scent of the trees. The way that as they ran by each bird it woke and began to sing.

There was a gust of wind that blew through the woods and Morrow reared up before she tugged at the reins and halted him, waiting for the southerners to catch up.

"Damn fast horse." The King observed, eying Morrow. "Probably so fast cause you're lighter than a damned feather. Do you ever eat girl?"

Lyla laughed. "More than a lady of my five-and-ten years should."

Robert grinned and looked down as Rose hurried to catch up to her master. "Loyal little wolf you have there, girl."

"Rose is a good girl. All of the direwolves are." The wolf stopped at Morrow's hooves, panting, but not unhappily. Her tail thundered back and forth, the force of it causing leafs to fury in the wind it created.

The King was about to reply when one of the stableboys she greeted earlier rode up on a shaggy looking pony. "M'lady! M'lady, Lady Lyla, it's the wee lord!"

Wee lord? Lyla thought hard, furrowing her brows. Wee lord was Little lord. Little lord was Bran's nickname. "Bran?"

The boy nodded, swallowing roughly. "He's- He's fallen m'lady!"

Lyla's eyes grew wide with a fear that jerked her to tears. "Fallen?" Was all she could manage before biting her lip until it bled. The stableboy nodded and she gripped the reins until her knuckles turned white. She looked to Robert and he looked just as concerned as she was worried.

"Go, girl." He commanded, and so she did.

* * *

Lyla had ridden fast before, so fast that all she could hear was the swooshing sound of wind as she and Morrow bounded through the woods, but she'd never gone as fast as she did when King Robert Baratheon told her, "Go, girl."

Wind slapped her face until it felt like she was being stabbed by daggers and her grip on Morrow's reins turned deathly, but she couldn't slow down, in fact, she dug her heels into the stallion's sides until she truly thought he couldn't go any faster.

All that was going through her mind was Bran. Her sweet brother Bran, who only hours ago was out in the yard with her, practicing his swordplay. Her sweet brother Bran, who was so gentle she thought him to have a kitten for a heart. She pulled up to the stables as quick as she could, catapulting from the saddle and tossing the reins to whoever was close enough to catch them, running into the castle as fast as her legs could carry her. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe or hear, as she forcefully shoved open the door to Bran's room.

There he lay, pale creamy skin looking dull, shadows already forming under his eyes. His expression was painful and queer and his thick Tully hair was like a flame about him. "Oh Bran." She croaked, throat dry from all the air she took in while riding. "Sweet, sweet Bran." He didn't twitch, didn't move a finger at her voice. Nothing. She didn't notice her mother across from her new spot kneeling at the side of her brother's bed until she spoke.

"He fell. From the east tower. Jaime Lannister carried him in and set him on the bed. Maester… He said he didn't know if Bran…" Catelyn Stark didn't look away from the thing she was weaving in her hands, a charm or dream catcher from the look of it, and her voice was so thick with angst and grief that Lyla's eyes overflowed with tears and they cascaded down her cheeks. She couldn't see Bran this way. She couldn't not know if her brother would live or die as he lay in his bed with that _painful _look. So she ran. In all her worst cases of utmost inner fear, all Lyla knew how to do was run. Run from things that scared her, run from things that worried her. Just run.

She didn't know when she was stopping or how long she'd run for, only that as soon as she passed the yard she dropped to her knees and cried. Cold chills made her shiver and slouch until her whole body was on the ground and she was convulsing in full-body sobs.

She heard someone call her name in the distance but curled around herself, not caring who saw her. All she cared about was Bran, and how his life, his fragile and beautiful life, was in the hands of the Gods who had been merciless enough to steal her grandfather, uncle, and aunt away before she was even born. She cursed as she cried, and tried to wipe her eyes as she saw someone approach her.

"Lady Lyla?"

It was Jaime Lannister in all his damned golden glory, green eyes so thick with an awkward concern that it made Lyla cry even harder. "I-I-I'm s-sorry, I-I-"

"Shhh." He hushed her, pulling her up from the ground and wrapping his arms around her without a second thought. He didn't try and move her, didn't try and kiss the top of her head or say anything comforting, only held her. After a long hesitation, Lyla wrapped her thin arms around his neck and let her hot tears stream as she buried her face into the crook of his neck.

Jaime smelled of honey and a tinge of lavender oil, and Lyla indulged in it, arms strengthening their hold on his neck until she was nearly pulling herself from the ground. She didn't know why she was crying to him, why she was letting him hold her in his strong arms, or why she was reacting with her own embrace of him- it all was happening so quick that before she knew it Jaime Lannister was pulling away from her, leaning down, and covering her lips with his own.

_*What will happen next? Will Lyla let him kiss her or will she shove him away? You'll have to keep reading to find out! Hope you enjoyed this installment! I really have loved reading all the reviews and hope I can rouse more from you- maybe promise a Jaime POV chapter? ;) Anyways, always glad to hear from you, doves, I love and appreciate you all! Have a beautiful night! :)_


	5. Chapter 5

Jaime woke up slowly, prodding his fingers around the bed until he found the fur covers and tugged them up to his chin, wincing when his knuckle brushed his cheek. He was momentarily confused at the sudden flash of pain but as he felt sleep receding from him, his memory flooded back.

He'd been speaking with, rather, he'd been heatedly arguing with King Robert when he saw her, sprinting through the castle in a blur of loose curls and sniffles. Not caring for Robert's presence anymore, he jolted after her, calling her name as she ran through the training yard and quickening his pace when she fell to her knees and sobbed to her heart's content.

She'd been cursing about her brother Bran when he approached her. "Lady Lyla?"

In her haste, she pushed from where she'd curled around herself on the ground and tried wiping her eyes as she sat up. "I-I-I'm s-sorry I-I-"

"Shhh." He didn't want to hear her sad, broken voice. For some reason it struck home with him, made him frown. Without a second thought, Jaime pulled her up and wrapped his arms around her thin waist, his hands splaying on the expanse of the velvety fabric of her gown. Hesitantly, Lyla reached her arms around his neck, burying her face into the crook of it and letting out the last of her hot, salty tears.

He knew why she was crying. He had carried the little lordling inside and laid him on his bed, not sparing him a second glance as he left the Maester to his work, though a nagging feeling told him to. He was about to speak when she tightened her hold on him, body shaking.

In the heat of the moment, he only knew one thing that might help ease her from her worries and calm her down, so he let his hands retreat from her back and rest on her upper arms, thumbs gently caressing the feel of her milky skin underneath the grey lace. Slowly, he pulled away and the hazy, confused look in her silk blue eyes drew him in, and he kissed her.

He kissed her soft and he kissed her slow. Kissed her so she would forget everything and stop being so sad. Kissed her so _he_ would forget everything and stop being so _guilty_. That is, until she shoved him away from her with what little energy she had left and slapped him so hard that an echo ripped through the Wolfswood that branched behind them.

They were both shocked, Jaime's green eyes bulging and his hand tenderly touching the place on his cheek that was already turning red, Lyla backing away from the surprise of her strength, eyes both scared and blazing with fury. With every step he took towards her, she took two steps back, until eventually she shook her head in disbelief of her actions and turned, resuming the sprint that caught Jaime so off guard.

_Damn good arm_, Jaime thought, grunting at the knock that sounded at his door. "Come in." He called, only loud enough so that the knocker could hear.

His eyes were still closed, but he peered through his lids when the door opened, sitting up when Cersei shut it behind her. Her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders, loose and waving subtly, creamy skin flushed with morning sunlight, her eyes distant, tired, mouth curling into a frown. "The boy lives."

"So he does." Jaime slid from his bed and began dressing, choosing blood red and gold garb and a deep grey cloak with crimson lining. When Cersei said nothing, he continued. "I spoke with Robert yesterday, tried to get out of the engagement."

"How dare he pair you with that little whore. She's a smelly wolf bitch- far too low born for you."

Jaime recalled her smelling of rosewater and rain, not at all unpleasant. "She's not too lowborn. Too young maybe, but the Starks have been here as long as the free people."

Cersei folded her arms over her chest. "You're a member of his Kingsguard, you've taken vows. He cannot do this!"

"He's king. He made sure I knew that yesterday when we spoke." He fussed with lacing his breeches and then buttoned his undershirt. "Which makes me remember… He's taking me from the Kingsguard."

"_What!?_" Cersei was fuming now, pacing the room with her arms flying as she gestured. "First he dares match you to a dirty northerner, and now he's taking you from the Kingsguard? He _cannot_ do that! Even as king! _He cannot_!"

"Keep it down, damn it." Jaime clasped his cloak on and covered her mouth with his fingers to silence her, but she wouldn't have it and shoved his hand away.

"You're nothing without the Kingsguard."

Her words stabbed him. "I'll be Lord of Casterly Rock once father passes. I'll still be a knight."

"And you'll be wed to a dirty wolf whore, you'll cast me aside and leave me to rot in King's Landing with the children so Robert can plunder into our bed and fuck me whenever he pleases, use me like a meatbag to hit and slap and punch. All for that _whore_."

Jaime grit his teeth, growing tired of Cersei's nickname for her. Lyla Stark was a great many things; fiery, strong, bold, but not a whore. "When I spoke to Robert, he told me he's relieving me of my duties in the Kingsguard, and that I'm to marry the girl- but only if she agrees with it. Lord Stark made it very clear that if she says no, there will be no wedding and I'll remain in my position in the Kingsguard."

Cersei narrowed her eyes. "And if she doesn't say no? What then? You'll go back to Casterly Rock with your whore? Muddy our bloodline with her filth? Yesterday would have been all for naught if you marry her!"

"_She's not a whore_." He growled, not sure what made him so defensive of her now. Cersei looked taken aback but quickly composed herself, holding her head high and standing.

"I'm going to break my fast with the children. Join me or not, I don't care." And with that, she stormed from his chamber, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Jaime avoided the great hall that morning, skipping his morning meal and heading over to the stables to check on his horse. He was about to turn the corner when he heard voices, and slinked into the shadows, ducking behind a haystack.

"The cook's daughter said she saw you out in the field behind the training yard yesterday." Came a light, rasping voice.

"How'd you win that out of her?" Jaime knew that voice, but couldn't put a name to it.

"I have my ways." The first voice was slick with a menacing sarcasm then.

"Shut up, Theon, before I throw up my damn breakfast."

"Are you sure? I could go on about how I-"

"Theon, that's enough! Really."

"You never said that she was lying, so what were you doing out there? She said that the Kingslayer was with you."

"None of your business, Greyjoy. And don't call him Kingslayer."

"Come on, Lyla, just tell me. I'm not your brother like Robb and Jon, I won't get my skirts in a ninny about it."

So it was Lyla talking to the Greyjoy boy? Jaime raised a brow and peered over the haystack, only to be confirmed of his suspicions. There she stood, back towards him with her dark brown hair billowing towards the small of her back, covering the better part of a thick green dress with white laces.

She paced slightly, less heavy-stridden than Cersei, more delicate. Thoughtful. "You can't tell."

Theon raised his hands up in surrender. "Who would I tell?"

"I swear it, Theon Greyjoy, if you tell that damned Jeyne Poole, or anyone, I'll murder you."

"With what? Your sewing needles?"

"Don't be so sure I couldn't." Her voice was so watered with humor that Jaime would almost hear her smile.

"So, what were you doing out there?"

She hesitated before answering. "I ran out there after… after I saw Bran. I guess he ran after me or something, cause he was there and he… we…"

"You're still a maiden aren't you?" The Greyjoy boy's fists were clamming up and he looked darkly serious then. "I'll kill him. Well, Robb and Jon will kill him first, but I'll do it a third time after them."

Lyla laughed and turned so Jaime could see the sunlight dance past her face, drowning her milky skin that looked ever lighter than Cersei's. He traced the curve of her lips and nose with his eyes, drinking it all in. "I'm a maiden still, Theon. Not even my horse has had that honor."

Jaime remembered how highborn girls could lose their maidenheads on horseback- how, he never knew, only that it happened more often than not.

"Did you kiss him?"

He could see the blush creeping from her neck to her cheeks. But it disappeared as quickly as it came. "Hells with that. I've never kissed a man."

"Did _he_ kiss _you_?"

"He did but…I pushed him and ran."

"Seven hells, Lyla! You let him even get that close?"

"I needed _someone_. Bran fell and I was crying and he-"

"_You_ were _crying_?"

"Shut up, Greyjoy, or I'll hit you harder than I hit him." Her eyes were slightly regretful and she looked down. "I shouldn't have struck him."

Theon folded his arms and sat on a haystack. "Damn good you did, glad someone wiped that smirk from his face."

Lyla gave a half hearted laugh and leaned on a wall. Jaime was bubbling with curiosity. She'd never kissed a man? Did that mean he was her first? He liked the idea of something being only his, not having to share like he had to share Cersei with Robert.

"My father told me the king's made a match of us, Ser Jaime and I."

Theon barked a laugh that made Jaime grit his teeth. "The Kingslayer trying to tame the likes of you? Seven blessings on him if he can."

"_Theon_."

"Alright, alright. _Ser Jaime_." He sighed, still smiling at her. Jaime didn't like that they were so apparently close, all alone in the stable- if he weren't there that is. "You want to call it off?"

Lyla shrugged. "I don't want to get married. And he's in the Kingsguard beside, so I'm not sure how that would even _work_. And Bran needs me… But the girls are going to King's Landing. They'll need me more." She looked lost in though, unconsciously nibbling her bottom lip.

"Why do you have to marry the Kingslay- Ser Jaime in order to go to King's Landing?"

"Because father won't let me go otherwise."

Jaime was moved by how much she thought about her family. How she was considering marrying him, a stranger, just to keep her two sisters safe while in the capitol. _She's brave_, he admired, not wanting out of the betrothal so much now.

"You'll figure it out." Theon smiled to her and she smiled too, nodding softly. "I have to go finish that hunt you ran out on. Stay strong, Stark."

Lyla waved as he left, and Jaime felt bad for kissing her. She probably thought he liked her a great deal more than he did and would feel bad for breaking it off. _Thoughtful girl_. His attention was turned towards a padding sound coming from the entry of the stables, one of the Stark direwolves prancing into the room. It was Lyla's, the soft brown one that he liked more than the rest. Until it started sniffing and scratching the hay he hid behind, that is.

"What is it, Rose?"

So she named the wolf Rose? Like what he called her at the feast two nights passed?

The scratching became more persistent and then she yipped. "Rose get out of that! The stableboys will have a fit if we're mucking up their-"

Jaime looked up from where he was slumped against the wall and sighed in relief as her voice faded and she was gone. But now he had more to think about. More to mull over. Maybe he should go through with the marriage to keep her with her family? But then again, as soon as they married, if not only weeks later, she'd be shipped away to Casterly Rock with him, and probably never see half of them again. The younger Stark girls though, they needed a mother's guidance, and Lyla was the closest thing to that, seeing as Cersei wouldn't help them. She'd probably just use the Tully looking one- Sansa was it? To her advantage, since she and Joffrey were betrothed.

He stood and shook out the hay that clung to his crimson lined cloak, clearing his throat and leaving the stables. _Tyrion will know what to do_.

* * *

"I have no idea." Tyrion shrugged and sipped on some wine.

"Come on, Tyrion, give me advice, tell me what to do."

"You're the older one, _I_ should ask _you_ for advice."

"About what?"

Tyrion shrugged again. "What color of hair should my whore have tonight? Brown? Red? Maybe a wench with a crown of golden locks."

Jaime's jaw tightened. "I'm serious, Tyrion."

"What do you think of her?"

"What?"

"Tell me what you think of her. The Stark girl. Lyla is it?"

Jaime considered it for a moment, weighing his words in his mind. "I think she's comely. Nice."

Tyrion raised a brow. "Comely? Nice? Come now, brother, dig deep. Cersei's not here to swat you."

He flinched. His sister would throw a fit, then throw objects, and in the heat of it all, throw herself at him. The prospect of it made him grin wolfishly once but now? He didn't know what to make of it. "She's pretty." Jaime took a swig of ale and sighed. "But she's fiery and would be a handful. Too much so."

"But her smile would make it all worth it, do you not think so, brother?" Yes, she did have a beautiful smile- one that wasn't only on her lips like Cersei, one that traveled to her eyes and her cheeks and her heart.

Jaime nodded and drank more ale. "I was in the stables and heard her speaking with the Greyjoy ward. She said she would marry- well consider marrying me to keep her sisters safe in the capitol, that her father will only let her go with them if she's to be my bride."

"Shame about her brother, don't you think?" Tyrion raised a brow and Jaime shuddered, looking away. "Why don't you go make amends with the Stark girl for kissing her and give her your sincerest of apologies about her brother's fall, and then maybe you'll think of something on your own."

He considered it for a moment and then shrugged. "What would I do? Send her flowers?"

"If that's what it took. Why not, just this once, you try and be that knight you always wanted to be- and be it for her? You might like each other a lot more by the end of it. Would you like me to do the honors?" When Jaime said nothing, only stuck his nose into the cup of ale again, Tyrion called, "Pod!"

A short black haired boy came running in and blinked his big moon eyes. "Yes, my lord?"

"Send the Lady Lyla Stark a bushel of flowers-"

"Roses. Send her roses. She'll know they're from me."

Pod shifted uncomfortably. "My lord, we don't have roses."

Jaime frowned. "Pod, you're a smart boy, are you not?"

Pod shrugged.

"Well, if you're truly so brilliant, you might think to go buy some roses." Jaime tossed him a small sack of gold, enough to buy a hundred thousand roses if he so pleased, and raised a brow when the boy didn't move. "What are you waiting for? Go."

Tyrion laughed, amused, and shook his head, curly golden ringlets swaying. "Almost sounded like Robert commanding Lancel."

"I don't want to be like Robert. I'm not like him."

"No, but I can't say you're much better."

Jaime narrowed his eyes. "I don't hit women, I father no bastards, I force no marriages betwixt people that don't know each other."

"Because you're not in power to do so. If Eddard Stark hadn't kicked your golden arse off that throne the day they sacked King's Landing, then you'd be doing all that and more."

There was a silence between them that was drawn and thick, that is, until Jaime smirked. "You think my arse is golden?"

About an hour later, Pod came back with what looked like a hundred roses bundled in his arms. He hurried across the room and handed Jaime the little bag that felt just as heavy as he remembered, and cleared his throat.

"What shall I do with them, my lord?"

Jaime placed the bag on the table that spaced between his and Tyrion's chairs and took a sip of ale. "I want you to give them to one of the Stark household maids and tell her to put them in Lady Lyla's courters."

Pod nodded and made to scurry off, but Jaime called him back. "Send a message for me as well, have the maid ask if that," He gestured to the roses, "is enough for her forgiveness."

The squire nodded again and off he went.

"Forgiveness for what, exactly?" Tyrion asked, looking quire perplexed.

Jaime only smirked that devious smirk of his, recalling the feast with fondness.

"_You're not forgiven." Lyla warned, though he caught her lips tugging into a smile._

_"I suppose if I'm to stay here for so long, I might as well get on your good side." Jaime sighed lightly. "And I guess __asking__ for forgiveness won't do?"_

She had shaken her head then, but what would she do now, that pretty little rose, with a hundred of her own roses placed strategically throughout her room? Jaime could only hope, wait, and see.

_*First off- Happy New Year to all! Now, phew! Jaime was a tough one to write. I want him to stay in canon but that was tough for me in this chapter, I hope I did well and that I can write more from his perspective soon- tell me what you think and if you liked it! Remember, your reviews give me incentive :)_  
_Admittedly, this was a bit of a filler, but the next chapter will be better (if it goes as planned) and we'll see more interactions between them soon.  
I've read this to edit it too many times to think it's any good- but then again, we are our own worst critiques! Still, I think it could have fared better... Been more descriptive maybe? I don't know. _  
_nluvwithemmettcullen: I hope that this chapter dropped enough hints for you about that... I have this lined up in a way that will reveal all in later chapters- but I hope you're not disappointed in the vagueness in this one!  
__Whoa- that's a lot of Author's Notes! Hope you all enjoyed my doves, I love and appreciate you all so so much! Have a great night :)_


	6. Chapter 6

Lyla sat at the edge of the pond that pooled only a short distance from the weirwood trees, rolling a rose petal between her right thumb and index finger, looking at her reflection.

It had only been a week since she found the roses in her room, spread out on her bed and making the whole west wing of the castle smell like Highgarden. There must have been a hundred roses, if not two, and a maid was waiting by the door to ask if the roses were enough for her forgiveness.

"Who are these from?" Lyla asked, then blinked away shock when the maid told her that Ser Jaime Lannister sent them.

In the duration of the week that Lyla spent hiding from Jaime so that she didn't have to answer him, she found herself retreating to the weirwood trees more often than not, lost in her mind for as long as the day permitted.

And that's where she found herself that morning, sitting there, looking at herself absentmindedly and rolling rose petals between her fingers until they were stained red and the sun reached its peak, marking the midday.

_If I marry him, I'll have to leave everyone behind_, she thought, _I'll have to move to the South and be the Lady of Casterly Rock_. She recalled the night of the feast then, how she told him she was not a lady, and frowned. She didn't want to be a lady of anything but Winterfell. _Maybe he'll buy me Winterfell with all his Lannister gold_, she mused, letting her lips curve up from the frown.

While she wanted to marry one day, and have a family, Lyla always thought she'd be doing it for love, not because a King commanded it of her. _What a strange request of your eldest friend. To marry his oldest daughter off to a man you hate… A strange request indeed_.

Lyla never understood why people hated Jaime so. Sure, he technically betrayed his role as a member of the Kingsguard when he stabbed Arys Targaryen in the back, but a thousand men were out with the same intentions- why was it so wrong that _he_ did it? He saved the Realm from the Targaryen fire, from the Mad King, so why did everyone hate him?

_Maybe it would be nice for Jaime_, she thought softly, _if he had a wife that didn't look at him as though he were a monster like everyone else does_. Even her own lady mother took fault in that, looking at Jaime as though he had murdered her father, but in reality, he killed the man that burned and strangled her first betrothed and her husband's father. _She should not look at him as though he were a savage._

There were other things weighing in her mind as well, like how Jaime had found Bran in the first place, and why he kissed her even though he was probably well aware of why she was so distraught. Those thoughts were the ones she'd been most curios about, and the ones that she'd dreaded to venture too far into.

_It was just a kiss_, she told herself, _just_ _a silly kiss from a silly lion to a silly wolf_. But if it was just that, why did she push him away? Why did she strike him with her palm across his suntoned cheek so _hard_? _Because I was scared_, Lyla thought. It was her first kiss, and though his sweet honey smell drew her in and made her want to leap onto him and wrap her thin legs around his middle and kiss him silly, she found herself too scared to do anything, too in shock to react in any way other than to push, slap, and run.

But as she ventured through those thoughts, she found herself daydreaming of the kiss; how his warm, soft lips barely graced hers, moving softly and nervously and tasting of something sugary that she simply couldn't place. Was it of cakes or berries or maple? No, it was none of those, but Lyla figured it didn't matter as she stood and brushed off her skirts to return to Winterfell. It would never happen again.

* * *

She'd been in Winterfell only five seconds and Rickon had already sprinted passed the training yard, through Robb's legs, around Theon's, and leaped at her, wrapping his chubby arms around her neck and panting into her hair. Lyla had been taken so off guard that all she could register for a moment that someone had just jumped at her.

After taking a moment to cross her arms around his waist and hold him at her hip, she raised a brow to him, "Is something the matter, wild wolf?"

He nodded and looked down, fingering her hair, tugging at it and rolling it between his fingers. "Mother won't come out."

Lyla sighed. Catelyn Stark hadn't moved an inch since Bran fell, even though Maester Luwin himself tended to him and assured the whole family, save Catelyn, over supper two nights passed that the worst was over, and he would live. Still, even though Rickon needed Catelyn, she didn't move. She was stone beside Bran's bed, weaving something awfully large and wicker, every once in a while letting out an exhausted sigh or a wave of silent tears. Lyla might have been more understanding about it, if Rickon hadn't been coming to her for everything the way he did their mother.

"Mother's just tired is all," Robb's voice sounded softly and he plucked Rickon from her arms, kissing the thick Tully red ringlets that were so much like his own. "I'll take you out riding, how about that?"

Lyla mouthed her brother a thank you, waving to Rickon who swung his arms in the air to her over Robb's shoulder, grinning with a wolfish excitement from being able to ride the pony she'd brought him back from her last visit with the Tyrells.

Willas had given her the pony to take to Rickon as a late nameday gift, but since the little wolf was too young to ride for Catelyn's comfort, the pony was stabled most of the time.

It was a fine pony, Lyla thought as she sat by the armory, watching Robb and Rickon ride around each other on the field across from her. It was a little mare, all brown with a thick, winterbred mane of black that curled just like Rickon's own wild mane of red. She laughed as their mounts bumped one another, not expecting the hand that suddenly rested on her shoulder.

"You look just like your aunt when you laugh like that." She looked up and her eyes widened slightly at the man. It was King Robert in all his gold and black and green glory, smiling at her sadly through a thick black beard and a pair of nearly Tully blue eyes.

Lyla flashed him a courteous smile and dipped her head. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Robert pulled up a seat beside her and examined her face with an arched brow. "If it weren't for those eyes, you'd be her ghost, I swear it by the Seven."

"You think so, Your Grace?" Lyla had never met her aunt Lyanna, being as she died before she was born, but was often told of her fine features and striking beauty that only a true northern woman could possess. She then recalled of the affection that Robert had for Lyanna and frowned. _The poor man must miss her terribly_, she thought. He could never love a woman the way he loved Lyla's aunt, well, that was what everyone said at least. Not even the Queen had his heart. "If Your Grace would rather not-"

"Spare me the titles, bad enough I hear them so often from this golden fuck." Robert tossed his head in the direction of a very Lannister looking boy, with long golden hair and those deep green eyes- eyes that made Lyla think of Jaime.

"Your Gra- er, Robert, might I ask you a question?"

The king shrugged and nodded, holding his hand out while the Lannister boy handed him a chalice and began to pour wine. The boy's eyes were on her the whole time and he almost spilled, had she not raised a brow at the pitcher. "Lancel, you bloody idiot! If you spill one drop if that Dornish red I'll have you-"

"Your Grace, uh, Robert," She didn't want to see Lancel's face get any redder from the embarrassment. When the king sighed and chugged what was in the cup he gave her his attention. "I wanted to ask why you made a match betwixt Ser Jaime and I."

She must have come off bolder than her ears made her believe, and Robert's brow arched. "Between you and I, girl, binding the North and South is the only way these bloody kingdoms will ever see peace."

"But Sansa and the Prince Joffrey are to be married- is that not binding enough?"

"To be frank girl, no. One marriage won't be enough."

"Sansa will be _Queen _one day though, along side the Prince. Won't a match of _royalty_ be enough to subside the feud?"

"No -"

"Why can Robb not marry the Princess Myrcella or my sister Arya the Prince Tommen? I ask you, my king, Your Grace, why must _I_ marry _Ser Jaime_?"

She was acting terribly improper but the questions kept coming, like vomit, the type that couldn't just be swallowed down, but shot out, leaving her mouth tasting like acid.

Robert looked slightly taken aback. "Such a fire in you girl." Was all he said for a long while, staring into her eyes- no, into her soul. Peering into the depths of her character and spirit. He only snapped out of it when the sound of Robb falling from his courser into a mud patch thundered through the courtyard, bringing him back from the voids, and he blinked, looking away. "I told Ned that if you didn't want to marry the Kingslayer, you didn't have to. Don't want to force you into it the way your aunt was forced from her very bed-"

Lyla rested a hand on his shoulder softly and gave him a weak smile before rising, before making up her mind for good. "You ride for Kings Landing in a matter of days, and… so shall I. For my sisters, I will do this. For the sake of keeping them safe, and if I have your word that they indeed _will_ be safe, and the rest of my family too, I'll marry Ser Jaime. In order to being peace to the Realm and ease your rule over the Kingdoms."

It was for sweet, soft Sansa who Lyla didn't pay enough attention to, it was for fiery, fierce Arya who needed more guidance than their father could ever give her. It was for her whole family that she agreed to it, for their security and safety, for their guaranteed protection. But most of all it was because somewhere in the depths of her soul, where the king was searching just moments ago, she felt like something bad was going to happen in the South. That once she, her father, and her sisters left Winterfell, they would need all the protection they could get.

But she shrugged away the chilling thoughts, and blinked back into the present, where the king had wrapped her into a warm hug, muttering something about a welcome to the family.

He smelled of ale and wine and whores, but there was something about his heat that reminded her of her father, and she embraced him back before pulling away and curtsying as he nodded to her and took his leave, waving the Lannister boy away as he went.

"So, you're to be my goodcousin?" Said the boy called Lancel, who immediately flocked to her once the king had gone off on his own in the direction of her father's solar, no doubt to tell him of her choice.

Lyla shrugged, sitting back down and focusing on her brothers who were now caked in mud and rolling around wrestling. It made her laugh more sincerely than she had in over a week, sparing a quick glance to Lancel as he sat beside her. The boys sauntered off and then it was just Lyla and Lancel, making her shift uncomfortably.

"My sweet cousin the Queen will be sad to see her brother leave for Casterly Rock once the time comes. They are very close, you know."

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him directly then. "Is there something you're trying to get at?"

He shrugged and leaned into his seat as she sat up. "He's very old, you know." Lancel commented after a long silence between them grew nearly as awkward as his lanky structure.

"I'm aware of Ser Jaime's age. He's not terribly old, just a man grown."

Lancel slipped his hand on hers for a moment, gripping it before she could pull it away. "They call you the Wildling of Winterfell," He leaned into her, mouth almost on her ear, "And should my cousin find trouble in keeping you tame, I'll not hesitate to claim you. I'll break you and make you beg for me, make you think of me when you're with your husband, I'll-"

Lyla could hardly see what was happening before her, it was such a menacing blur. There was a thick sounding _thud_ and something, or rather, someone, fell. She had to blink rapidly to focus in on Lancel, who was on the ground with blood dripping from his newly torn lip and a cut that traced from the corner of his mouth to at least an inch further up his cheek. Looking up to who had hit him, she felt an odd flush of relief.

Jaime was standing over his cousin, fist pulled back as though he would hit him again. "Say one more word to her, try and touch her, even look at her, and I'll kill you."

The words seemed to come so easily from him, and Lyla's eyes raked over him for the first time in a week. "Your hand…" She nearly whispered, taking his right hand from its stance in the air in her two hands and looking it over. There was skin peeling from his knuckles, no doubt from Lancel's teeth, and there were a few other nicks that were bleeding, tough not so much as Lancel was as he sneered and ran off.

She quickly remembered the wine pitcher Lancel had with him and picked it up from the ground, looking into Jaime's eyes for a moment. "This is going to sting." He nodded and his left hand gripped the nearest object- the arm of the near by chair- and she poured.

He barely winced, and she quickly tore the hem of her underskirt, which was fresh washed and clean, and began wrapping his knuckles. She hadn't realized how scared she was until she tried to tie it off, and noticed how violently her hands were shaking.

When she finally managed to tie it, Jaime bent down and looked her in the eyes. "Are you alright?" Lyla nodded, but he could see right through her mask. "What did he say to you? Did he hurt you?"

Her eyes immediately lowered and she shrugged away the absolutely revolting dirty felling that was growing in the pit of her stomach. "He… He said a lot of things."

Jaime grabbed her wrists, firmly but not painfully tight, and stared at her until she looked in his eyes. "Tell me what he said. Don't lie and don't give me shit answers like that."

Lyla should have been shocked at the extent he acted like he cared for her, but it only made her feel safe, for some reason. "He said he'd claim me… and break me… And make me beg for him and think of him when I was with… When I was with…"

"Your husband?"

She nodded. For some reason_ husband_ just couldn't come out of her mouth, like her tongue twisted on the word.

"He touched you." Jaime was looking at her hand, which had soft red spots where the little shit's fingers dug into her skin. She wanted to throw up at the memory of it all. "I'll kill him."

Lyla gasped and gripped his arm with her small hands when he stood before he could start off in the direction Lancel ran off in. "Don't be stupid!"

Jaime looked fierce, angry in a way that scared her and excited her. After looking at her for a few seconds his face softened, "You never said if I was forgiven or not. Were you avoiding me?"

"Yes." She admitted, looking down. His fingers tugged at the under part of her chin and pulled her face back to look at him again.

"Don't hide from me."

"Don't do stupid things and I won't hide." The word-vomit again.

Jaime almost looked amused though, and Lyla took in every strand of his golden lion's mane, of his starling eyes, of that damn smirk that wormed its way back to his lips. "Fair enough." He let her go then, and her wrists felt icy cold as soon as his hands retreated, making her force back a frown.

"Lyla!"

They both turned to where a distant voice sounded her name, where Eddard was standing in the doorway of the entrance to one of the castle halls. He didn't look pleased.

"I have to go." Lyla rushed, lifting up her skirts and hurrying off just as Jaime called a "Goodbye," after her.

* * *

"You're sure about this?"

"I'm positive."

"Nobody is putting you up to it?"

Lyla shook her head and sighed. "Father, I've made my decision. I'm going with you."

"And you know the cost of it? The price you have to pay in order to come?"

"The Lannister price."

Eddard flinched slightly, but recovered quickly, cupping her pale cheek with his hand. It was warm and gentle, and she leaned in to it. "If you change your mind at any point, you just tell me, okay? I swear it'll be called off the moment you don't want to do it anymore."

Lyla gave her father a light smile and kissed his cheek before rising. "I'm a Stark, a wolf. I can handle myself." It was a lie. If she could handle herself she would have been able to stop Lancel Lannister's advances, but she couldn't, she froze. If Jaime wasn't there… She didn't want to know what would have happened.

"And the Kingslayer… Are you sure you don't want anyone younger? Maybe the Lannister boy that squires for Robert… Lanle?"

Lyla gulped roughly. "Lancel…?"

Eddard nodded, "That's the one. Maybe he woul-"

"No. He… Father I have to tell you something…"

Eddard raised a brow, a sign for her to continue, but there was a knock on the door just as she opened her mouth.

"Lord Stark, the king requires your presence." It was Jory, who smiled to Lyla and waited as Eddard gave her an apologetic look, told her they'd talk later, and took his leave, Lyla right behind him.

Baths were always too warm for Lyla, but now it wasn't hot enough, as she tried scrubbing Lancel's breath off her ear and neck, his icy grip from her fingers. She felt dirty and scared of ever being remotely close to him ever again. She scrubbed and scrubbed, finally giving up when her skin turned pink and splotchy from how rough she was with the sponge.

She sighed, whistling for her direwolf Rose, who ran in from her room and yipped, dragging a robe along with her. "Give me that, silly wolf." Lyla murmured, kissing her pet between the ears before rising from the tub and patting herself dry with a towel and wrapping the robe around her.

It was cold as she stepped out of the tub, and normally she loved it, let it envelope her and caress her as she sat by her window, but tonight she was melancholy and frightened that Lancel might steal into her chambers and-

_No_, she thought firmly, _I mustn't think that way. Jaime didn't let anything happen_. She smiled lightly, barely, remembering how Lancel's face twisted so darkly as he scurried off.

As she curl up on her bed with Rose, who was under Sansa's watchful eye that day due to Lyla's dire need of a break from mothering both her wolf and Rickon, Lyla wondered if Jaime knew about her acceptance of the engagement and that's why he got so defensive of her. Or maybe because it was his last chance to make up for the vows he thought he broke in killing the Mad King before he was taken from the Kingsguard. She shrugged as her wolf curled over her lap, a dark, dreamless slumber claiming her before she could even finish her thoughts.

_*I've always had an underlying hate for Lancel, and figured since I hate him so much, why not put a reason behind it? And thus, the interesting scene with Lancel and Lyla, and later on with Jaime. I was thinking of how to have Lyla react all week and I think this is pretty much how she would really react- so here it is! Hope you like it! _  
_Just wanted to give a big thanks to everyone- all the notifications of favorites and follows and reviews really do make my day, as cliche as that sounds. :)_  
_So, how will the Starks react to Lyla's going to the Landing? How will things go between her and Jaime now that he's back in her good graces? You'll just have to keep reading to find out ;)_  
_Enjoy! I love and appreciate you all, little doves!_


	7. Chapter 7

Lyla couldn't move, couldn't breathe, only feel where her skin was burning from his touch. "I'll make you beg for me." He whispered huskily into her ear. "You'll be screaming my name. Lancel, Lancel, Lancel." His golden hair looked more piss yellow than anything she'd ever seen and the green eyes that once reminded her of Jaime looked empty and almost black, they were so dark with a powerful lust.

"No!" She cried as he shoved her against her chair, seeing nobody around as her eyes darted, searching for someone, but finding no one. No one but Lancel, who began placing sick and feverish kisses on her neck, hands on her wrists, grasp hard and painful.

He pulled back and almost hissed his, "Shut up!" as he tore her dress and ripped his breeches off. "Now sit still!" She was about to wiggle away but his hands moved to her hips and she strained not to see him as she tried to close her knees, but his body was between them too quickly and-

Lyla woke up with a start, gasping for air as she jolted from her bed and tumbled onto the floor. Her eyes darted until her breath steadied and she was secure with the thought that she was alone in her room- aside from Rose, who lay only feet from her, head cocked to the side and one ear flopping, the other alert and pointed towards the ceiling.

"Damn nightmares." She muttered, rubbing her jaw where she could feel a bruise forming from where it smacked the edge of her bedframe. She could still feel his breath on her, feel his fingers icily wrapping around her hand and dragging her close. Jaime might have stopped him from physically touching her, but who could save her from her mind? While it scared her, she knew very well why she froze the way she did.

Catelyn Stark, her lady mother, was as fiercely protective of her wolf pups as Cersei Lannister was of her lion cubs. She shielded Lyla, Sansa, and Arya from any knowledge of men outside that of what she knew from her marriage to Ned, and that of what her mother told her.

"You will be married one day," She would tell her daughters as they sewed or knitted by the window. "And your lord husband will be very good to you. I promise, you'll only know a man's soft touch."

While Sansa had soaked that thought in and relished it, Arya sneered at the thought of marriage, and Lyla simply didn't think much of it. And now, looking back, she wished she could scream at her past self, sitting so scared at the touch of a man. She wished she would have struck him like Jaime had, or at least said _something_. But she didn't. She couldn't have.

A knock on the door allowed her escape her thoughts, and she called a, "Come in," as she rose from her seat beside the bed. A maid rushed in, dark grey eyes wide with panic.

"M'lady, are you alright? I heard a noise as I was passing by, and-"

Lyla raised a hand slightly as she sat on the edge of her bed and waited for her vision to regain itself from the black splotches she saw from rising too fast. When they were gone she looked to the window, where faint silvery traces of light poured onto the floor. "What time is it?" She asked, arching a brow.

"It's early, m'lady Stark. About dawn." The maid was a pretty girl, Lyla decided, as her eyes whipped back to the sound of her voice. She had a thick, not uncomely body, and long straight black hair with dark eyes. As her mind registered itself, she realized it was the same maid that King Robert was kissing the night of the feast.

She figured no time should be wasted sleeping in rather exploring the castle and the grounds, being as the next few days would be the last she would see of Winterfell in so long it _pained_ her. She asked the maid to fetch her a dress and some smallclothes, feeling too exposed in only her thin robe, and changed behind the screen when handed a long, thin, whispy gown of silver and white embroidery. It was more of a southern style, with lace crawling from the heart shaped bust until it graced her neck, and it reminded Lyla of her mother. The mother she hadn't seen in almost two weeks.

After tying a cloak around her shoulders, a thick one to balance out the light gown, Lyla and her direwolf, Rose, wasted no time in reaching Bran's room, where Catelyn was sure to be.

"Mother?" She knocked quietly on the door, watching as a figure beside the little lordling's bed jumped, gasping.

The body turned and she could faintly trace the figure of her mother, wearing the same gown she had worn the day Bran was carried into the castle by Jaime. _My betrothed_, she thought softly.

"Mother, might I come in?" She was cautious of course, always on her guard with her mother when she was distraught. Catelyn had a way of being spiteful when she was upset.

Regardless of what Lyla had been expecting, her mother nodded to a chair across from her on the other side of the bed and turned her attention to cleaning her son's face with a fresh, damp towel.

Drawing in a slight breath, Lyla watched her mother for a while before speaking. "Maester Luwin said that Bran would be okay, you know." Catelyn tensed, glancing at her daughter for a split second before resuming her work. Her mother seemed so engrossed in taking care of Bran, cleaning him, working over him as though she were a silent sister preparing his corpse- it sickened Lyla almost to the point where she didn't know if she wanted to be there anymore. _Almost._

"He said that Bran will recover and be healthy again soon, mother. He said that there's no need to worry. The worst is over."

Catelyn exhaled sharply. "If the worst is over, why is my son still asleep?"

"I…" She had no idea, and was scared of telling her mother that, in fear of her reaction. "Maester Luwin said it was so he could recover in peace. So that he wouldn't have to worry about being sad when we leave for the capitol."

Her mother's eyes grew for a moment. "You're leaving with the girls?"

Lyla nodded, saying a meek, "Yes," when she realized her mother's eyes were glued to Bran, and she didn't catch the movement.

"You're to marry a southerner?"

Had her mother not been told of her betrothal to Jaime? Or even of the King's offer? Lyla tried to hide the surprise in her voice as she spoke. "Father hasn't told you?"

Catelyn shrugged and shook her head slightly.

"I am marrying a southerner, yes." She was careful with her words, knowing fully of her mother's weariness of the Lannisters.

A look of despair drenched her mother's Tully blue eyes- _her_ Tully blue eyes- and for a moment she though her mother was broken, from how sad and vulnerable she looked. "I'm losing four of my children."

Lyla's dark brows slowly knit together. "Mother, only Sansa, Arya and I are leaving. Bran Rickon and Robb will be right here."

"Bran isn't here." Catelyn said simply. Sadly, but simply. "He's gone. I fear he'll never return." It pained her to no end seeing her mother cry, and she forced herself to look at her brother, if only to avert her eyes from the steams of water that now ran down her mother's cheeks.

He looked thinner than she remembered him to be, cheekbones growing gaunt, hair dulling, skin paling even snowier than before, leaving the gentle brown freckles that splattered across the bridge of his nose looking ever darker and almost sickly sparse.

She bit her tongue to keep away the tears and sudden urge to run away again, looking down at her twiddling thumbs. "Mother, I know this is hard but-"

"You don't know." Catelyn retorted almost menacingly slick with a hardness Lyla had never heard from her mother before. "You have no idea what it's like to lose a child."

"Mother, Bran is not lost to us-"

She tried to reason, but it went for naught when her mother's glare turned to her. Her blue eyes had never looked more stark white with icy anger. "You've always been so difficult. Lighting the sept on fire, going on hunts with your father and brother… You've been _so_ _difficult_. Bran, though. Bran's good. I don't see why they have to take him over-"

Catelyn seemed to realize her words as soon as Lyla's eyes began to drip burning hot tears that stained her cheeks.

"Lyla, I'm sorry …" There was no need for her to continue, for Lyla had already stood, brushed a soft kiss to Bran's brow, and took her leave.

* * *

"She didn't mean it, Ly."

It was midday. The sun was roiling in the pale blue, cloudless sky, and Lyla was sitting under the deck with Robb as they watched Jon and Theon swordfight. In the heat of it all, she'd hidden below the balcony in hopes that nobody would find her, but as soon as the sun had clawed its way to its peak, Robb found her and forced the words of her earlier confrontation with Catelyn to spill from her.

"Her eyes, Robb, I could see it in her eyes. She meant it."

Robb sighed and went to pat her hand, but she recoiled it quickly, mind diving into the memory of her dream and making her shudder uncomfortably. "Lyla, she's just upset about Bran. She's stressed is all."

Lyla shook her head, blank, tired eyes focused on Theon and Jon as they danced around each other in a storm of steel and iron. "She was going to say the gods should have punished me for being so difficult, and not Bran."

"She's grieving, Lyla, give her time. You know she didn't mean it."

"She's neglecting Rickon." Lyla countered, watching as little Rickon giggled by the Maester's with Arya and Sansa. "I won't be here to mother him for very much longer, Robb."

Her older brother shot her a look of confusion that melted into something she couldn't read. "So, what Theon said… it's true? You're marrying the Kingslayer?"

Lyla lifted her gaze, looking at Robb with eyes matching his own even in shape, with a slight annoyance. "He does have a name, Robb."

"Jaime Lannister, if my memory serves."

The voice came from behind them and they both turned slowly. There he was in all his golden glory, knuckles still bandaged. He was smiling, not smirking, as he looked down on Lyla with burning green eyes. "Might I have a moment alone with you, my lady Stark?"

Robb looked at Jaime with eyes as hard as Valeryian steel, and, saying nothing, rose and nodded curtly before taking his leave. His seat was quickly filled by Jaime, who fixed his eyes on the spar before them for a moment.

"I heard something about you having a bad dream. Is that what caused this?" His finger was feather light on the swollen, ugly violet bruise that had formed on her jaw, and she shrugged.

"I fell." While honest, her answer didn't seem to satisfy Jaime, whose golden brow was arched.

His brow lowered when her eyes dropped and he draped an arm on the table, sinking into the cushioned chair. "I spoke with Lancel."

Lyla's eyes lifted quickly and narrowed. "What did I tell you about being stupid?"

"Relax. I only told him to be careful." He looked to her and shrugged at her uncertain gaze. "I'm not one to trifle with."

"Nor am I." She huffed, sitting straighter.

"Didn't seem that way yesterday." Jaime said lightly, almost musingly. "You looked like you were about to be sick."

She snorted. "I could have handled it."

"And I could have let him further his advances."

"Why didn't you?"

Jaime laughed at that. "And here I thought ladies _liked_ being rescued by knights."

Lyla held her chin higher and looked him in the eyes. "I'm not a lady."

"No?" Amusement was drowning his voice. "You best learn fast, then, my dear. Casterly Rock doesn't take well to wildlings- even the ones from Winterfell."

His remark made her flinch and she shrunk back into her seat. Lancel had called her the Wildling of Winterfell. She was pulled into a sadness then, eyes raking across the beauty that was her home. The cold, wonderful beauty she would have to leave behind for the hot, strange South. Her mind wandered to her mother then, born and raised a southern lady, and she fell even more a prisoner to her emotions.

"Lady Lyla?"

Her eyes rose up slowly and she blinked back the forming tears that threatened to drip at the memory of her mother's words. "Sorry. Just dusty down here." She gave him a slight smile as she took note of the steady concern in his eyes.

Jaime ran a hand through his golden mane and for a moment, and Lyla wanted to feel it for herself, wanted to grace her fingertips over the strands to see just how silky they were- but she snapped out of it when she felt something pounce at her.

Her eyes widened and she looked down, sighing at the little one that was playing in her dark brown ringlets. "Morning Lyla!"

Rickon was dressed in their House colors, grey and white, looking up at her with his big, blue moon eyes and grinning wolfishly. Lyla smiled softly, kissing his cheek. "It's hardly morning anymore, wild wolf."

Her brother simply shrugged, his growing red locks bouncing with his shoulders. She looked to where Jaime sat and noticed how amused he looked, smirking. "Rickon, this is Ser Jaime." She announced, wrinkling her nose when Rickon fisted her hair and tugged on it to lean in and get a better look at the knight.

"He looks like sunshine!" Rickon whispered through his giggles, bouncing on her knees. Without warning, he hopped from her lap and into Jaime's, running his chubby, baby fingers through the masses of thick blonde curls.

"Rickon!" Lyla gasped, trying to grab him back, but Jaime only laughed.

"It's alright," He insisted, ruffling Rickon's thick locks as he settled into his lap and watched Arya challenge Jon at a duel from where she sat with Sansa, still by the Maester's.

Lyla watched as Jaime and Rickon both fixed their eyes across the yard and couldn't help but smile. They looked like a natural pair, the wolf and lion, laughing at the same time with Jaime bouncing Rickon on his knee.

While she'd been thrust into motherhood of Rickon in the past near two weeks, Lyla had to admit that she would miss him terribly, though he would probably miss her a million times more. _Poor dear_, she thought softly, _won't have a mother to love him and kiss him goodnight. _Catelyn certainly wasn't going to do those things anymore, now that she devoted every second of her day to Bran, making Lyla sometimes question her mother's sanity- it was a trait that Tully's seemed to have; being mad.

Regardless, she was confident Robb would take care of him, the way Robb took care of everyone. Her big brother, Tully of look, but Stark at heart- he always made sure everyone was happy, made sure everything that could be done was done. He was a man of honor, like their father, and one of the most dutiful men she'd met, next to Jon, Theon, and of course her father. Yes, Robb would take care of Rickon, and well- he'd take care of him as well as he'd take care of Winterfell, of that she had no doubts.

"Take it back!" Lyla heard Arya cry in frustration as Jon slid from her swing with her wooden sword.

Jon looked amused, and tired from his long spar with Theon, but he'd never let Arya in on that secret. "You'll be a good, proper little lady." He coaxed as she swung at him more.

The two were laughing, the Snow- by birth, but still her brother by heart- and the Stark, as they both missed swing after swing of their thick wooden swords.

Sansa was scowling with disapproval, standing beside Theon, who was cheering on Arya. She would miss Theon something awful, she realized, watching him laugh in that oh so comforting way. Before she had even turned twelve namedays, Theon had claimed her as his, and they were so close, best of friends-more so than he was with Robb or Jon at the time- but that was years ago, and things changed as they grew older and Theon turned into a man while Lyla a woman. While she still felt they were close, she longed for the late night talks they used to share, musing about the glory days of their childhood.

In all the thoughts she'd relished in, she hadn't even noticed how Jaime's hand lightly rested on her own until she was pulled from her mind by Arya thwacking Jon's shoulder with her fist.

A hot blush creeped up from her toes to her cheeks, and she swallowed it down, though didn't pull her hand back until Rickon crawled back into her lap and sprawled out sleepily. She ran her hands through his hair and hummed unconsciously as she watched Arya and Jon, aware of Jaime's watchful green eyes on her.

"It seems you're a natural mother," He commented once Rickon was asleep and a maid came and wrapped all four years of him in her arms to carry him to bed.

Lyla shrugged, rising to stretch her arms out and running her fingers through her hair. "Hard not to be. I do have four younger siblings, you know."

Jaime smiled and stood as well. "I know. I also had a younger sibling- just one, but Tyrion _was_ a handful."

She tried to imagine a little golden haired boy with bi-colored eyes running around and screaming with joy in the wind as Rickon did and laughed. "Hard to picture that. He seems so… mature."

"And he is," Jaime offered her his arm and she hesitantly accepted it, "In fact, some times I think him more mature than I will ever be."

"Perhaps I should be marrying him then." She mused, laughing when Jaime faked a theatric gasp the way that Theon did so often when they jested. Maybe he wasn't so much a stranger after all, she thought as they walked in the way that seemed to lead to the gardens. He japed with her as Theon did, and was protective like Robb, but even more so. He had a smirk that was all his own though, and Lyla caught herself admiring it before she looked away.

"I'd be shamed forever," Jaime laughed almost like Jon- thick and hearty but soft- "My younger brother marrying before I."

Lyla raised a brow then. "How is it that you can marry, anyways? You're in the Kingsguard. You've taken vows."

Jaime thought on it, weighing his words in his mind, and she noticed the way he furrowed his brows and his forehead wrinkled as he thought. "His Grace is relieving me of my position and restoring my title as heir to Casterly Rock, where we'll live out the rest of our days- rich and happy and warm." She did not miss that he mentioned them as _we _and _us,_ meaning he must have learned of her acceptance of their betrothal.

She'd heard of the Rock, studied it with Maester Luwin, but she still preferred Winterfell over anything. Winterfell was happy and warm, and what it lacked in obscene riches of gold, it made up for in riches of the land. "And I'll be the Lady of the Rock." She commented, more to herself than to Jaime, as she remembered how she didn't want to be the lady of anywhere but Winterfell.

"And one day we might even have little lions." Jaime mused, though his arm tightened around hers nervously at the mention of children.

Lyla rolled her eyes at that, then caught sight of Sansa and the Prince Joffrey walking with the Hound in tow. "He seems fond enough of my sister." She observed with hawk-like eyes.

They strolled much too close together for her ease and Sansa was blushing too beet red for them to be speaking of trivial things. "Yes, my sister tells me the Prince is rather infatuated with the young Stark girl."

At the mention of his sister, Lyla recalled the night of the feast. Of Theon's accusations against Jaime and Her Grace, the Queen Cersei.

"_Haven't you heard the rumors? About him and the Queen?" Theon had rasped to her, reeking of ale and wine._

He called her a brotherfucker, and Lyla immediately stopped in her tracks at the remembrance of it, looking up at Jaime with thickly curious eyes. She wanted to ask if the allegations were true, about him and his twin, but couldn't find the heart to do it. That, and she simply didn't think he would answer.

"Is there a snark or grumpkin on my face? Surely I'm not so grotesque to make you look at me as thus."

His tone was nervous yet jesting, and she looked away quickly, muttering her apologies, dark ringlets billowing over her shoulder as she averted her gaze.

She felt a hand warm on her cheek and realized Jaime was pulling her hair gently back behind her shoulder, smiling, and she smiled too, worries melting away. He seemed so calm and casual, and Lyla started to think being his lady wife wouldn't be so terrible after all.

* * *

They had only been in the garden for a few short minutes it seemed, before a southern maid swung around the corner practically begging Jaime to come with her, saying that the Queen was in need of him, and he left her alone with her thoughts.

That was hours ago, though, and the blazing sun had already fallen, the silvery crested moon taking its place. Stars, hung high in the deep blue sky, are what Lyla fixed her eyes on from where she sat by her window, lost in her thought, Rose already softly snoring on the foot of the bed.

Was the Queen having an affair with Jaime? If he was seeing his sister, why was he so protective of her when Lancel tried to advance on her? Was it all an act so she would like him? Did she like him? The questions spun in her head too fast for her to be able to think on them and answer rationally, so she just sighed and let her legs drop to the floor, moving the short distance to her bed and laying down, Rose pawing at the furs as she made her way to rest over Lyla's legs. She knew sleep wouldn't come for her that night, only thoughts and questions she couldn't answer- but Jaime could. "I'll ask him tomorrow." She whispered to herself in the darkness, closing her eyes though her mind kept on racing.

_*Slightly longer one, and I'm not over pleased with the end, but writer's block struck me right before I had the chance to write it. So, what did you all think? Remember, your reviews = inspiration!_  
_Lady Fountainhead: I hope I answered your question through the story- I tried to work it in, kind of give an explanation. I figured since Sansa and Arya both are shielded so much from men (though react differently to it) that Lyla would be too, making her freeze at his touch because she never knew a man to be rough and angry, like he was._  
_Dark Alana: I chose Lancel because both in the books and show, he's portrayed as a sniveling brat, and I absolutely detest him, so I figured he'd be an easy one to write that scene for, and it only made it easier that he's Robert's squire._  
_I hope I answered all your questions- if you have more feel free to ask! I'll always try and answer them the best I can, if I don't end up working them into the story._  
_Hope you enjoyed, doves, and have a splendid day! I love and appreciate you all, my dears :)_


	8. Chapter 8

The sounds of steel clashing and someone shouting ripped Jaime from his slumber and his eyes snapped open. Instinctively, he reached for his sword and shot up, but saw no one in his room. Steel clinked again and he tilted his head as he rose and went to the window, sitting on the chair beside it and looking down.

There were two boys practicing with swords- the eldest Stark child and the Greyjoy boy. _Of course_, Jaime thought, then the shouting came again and he smirked. _Lyla_.

"Come on, Robb, that was terrible!" She called from where she leaned against one of the balcony posts, arms crossed. "You're putting too much importance on the offense- remember, you defend yourself as you fight!"

She looked so northern- thick brown ringlets pulled into a loose braided bun, showing off her sleeves of thick grey fabric and snug, matching grey bodice. Her skirt gently swayed as a breeze set in, but she didn't move to wrap the ghastly heavy looking cloak tighter around her shoulders, almost like the cold didn't bother her. Her velvety blue eyes swung to and fro as she intently watched her brother and their father's ward practice. Jaime thought even a Baratheon's eyes couldn't match hers.

"Theon if you don't charge him at least keep your sword in your hand!" She shouted, and Jaime's eyes flickered to where Robb stood triumphantly over the dark haired boy, smiling a smile that looked so much like his sister's.

Theon spat and glared at Lyla as he retreated to pick up his sword, which had skidded a few feet from the edge of the fence. "Why don't_ you_ have a go, _my lady_, if you're so intent on telling us _men_ what to do."

Lyla snorted and ripped the sword from his hand as he held it out to her, "Men? More like green boys." He could tell she was jesting from the amusement that flowed through her, and Theon grinned, taking her place in leaning against the post while she went to Robb.

The Stark boy looked nervous and at first he shook his head, as if not wanting to spar with his sister, but she swung at him and he grinned as he ducked away from the blow. "Septa would have a heart attack." He commented, thrusting his sword forward.

She only missed it by a few inches and Jaime's breathing hitched- but he exhaled when she successfully spun away. She was lithe and rather lacking in height, so easily she dodged swing after swing. Eventually her braided bun fell and as a slight breeze picked up it untwisted and tumbled to past her elbows. "I stopped listening to Septa when I was five." Lyla reminded her brother through her ducks and spins around his sword before slapping the back of his unguarded thigh with the flat of her blade.

_I might just have to spar with her_, Jaime mused. He was becoming engrossed in watching her move. It was like an art, swordfighting, a dance that took great effort from a man; yet there she was, a small woman with northern blood and summer blue eyes, dancing with the steel as though she'd been doing it her whole life.

Only the sound of his door opening was enough for Jaime to rip his eyes from the eldest Stark children as they swung at each other. "Jaime? Are you awake?"

He could tell it was Cersei before she even finished saying his name. "Yes." He replied, turning and smiling at her. She was a vision, as always, with her summer colored dresses and light, thin cloak around her shoulders. Her hair, though, was wrapped and piled atop her head with braids and curls, two strands loose around her neck. It reminded Jaime of a bird's nest, and his nose wrinkled.

"I've been so neglected, brother." She murmured, nearing him after she closed and bolted the door behind her. She smelled faintly of something sour and strongly of wine.

Jaime shifted from the window after stealing a last glance at Lyla and moved to sit at the desk across the room, Cersei trailing after him. "I've work to do, sister." He muttered, shuffling through his papers, eyes landing on the letter his father had sent him.

Cersei seemed to have noticed the letter too, and snatched it before his thoughts could be collected. "He… Father approves of this? Of your match to this northern whore?"

"He needs an heir." Jaime said simply, not missing her continued nickname for Lyla. For his betrothed. Yes, of course Tywin would approve of the match- he needed his son to take over the Rock in his passing, and his father had never seen Tyrion as a son. "He wants us to be married upon our arrival to King's Landing, and to leave for Casterly Rock soon after."

She sneered. "That's preposterous. It cannot be done. Weddings take months to plan." Her eyes then glinted then. "Why aren't you fighting this harder?"

He shrugged, leaning into the chair further. "It might not be so bad."

"You would leave me for her? You've only just met her and you're already chasing after her- am I not desirable enough, brother?" She moved around the desk and slid onto his lap, leaning down and smirking, green eyes glittery as sunlight poured through his window and into her golden locks that matched his own perfectly.

She truly was a beautiful thing, his sister; big round eyes that were always seductively hooded and flowing waves of sunshine, but her stare was distant and she was, more often than not, bitter or angry. "Not here, Cersei. Not anymore."

Her once hooded eyes were now burning as though they were wildfire. "Are you spiting me for something?" She growled, jumping from his lap and smoothing her skirts.

"I'm not spiting you for anything, sister. This just cannot be as it was. I'm to be married."

"When I was to marry Robert you had no objections."

"We were young then. Barely more than children."

"And now you're trading me out for another that's younger than we were then."

Jaime stared at her for a moment. She was fuming, voice growing and getting deeper with each word. Where was the sister that would just talk with him, take simple walks with him under the rays of the sun that matched the gold of their hair, the one that he fell in love with? But still, she had a point, and he forced himself not to look towards the window. "She may be young, but she's a woman grown and will be a fine wife." Being born of the two most dutiful houses in the Westeros, there was no doubt Lyla would make a good wife, or at least a loyal one.

"A fine wife? Ha, she's nothing more than a girl. Inexperienced in life and bed…" Cersei moved closer towards Jaime and gave him another sensual smile. "I am experienced, though. I am-"

"Cersei, please." He sighed, standing and moving to his closet to change from his heavy nightclothes. "I doubt that her being inexperienced in our marriage bed will make her a bad wife."

"Well what would make her a good wife, hm?" She folded her arms and glared, "What is it that she does to draw you in? To make you turn away from me?"

Jaime raised a brow, pulling off his over robe and slipping into a thick undershirt and vest- gold and red with lions stitched onto the ruby cloak he swung over his shoulders. "Nothing draws me in and nothing is turning me away from you, sister."

"You didn't answer my question, brother," Cersei hissed through her teeth, "What would make her a good wife?" She sat on the edge of his bed, green eyes narrow.

Jaime pulled on a pair of tan boots and matching gloves before turning and looking her over. She was angry, absurdly angry. For a second, he caught himself thinking of ripping her dress off and fucking the fury out of her, but as he imagined twisting his fingers through her golden locks, they turned brown and curled, her skin paled, and he forced himself to leave his mind before his sister's face transformed into another's. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Cersei snorted, but as she opened her mouth to retort, there was a loud smack of steel from the yard below and screams. "What was that?"

Jaime didn't wait to find out. Instead, he ran to his door and unbolted it, leaving Cersei alone in his chambers. All he could think about was Lyla, unarmored and defenseless against the smack of a sword. He turned the bend around the hall that opened to the training yard and his brother suddenly appeared.

"What's happened?" Tyrion asked, brow raised.

He spun on his heel and beckoned his brother to join him, slowing his pace so that Tyrion could keep up. "I don't know." Was all he had time to say before they reached the yard.

* * *

Theon was howling at the Stark boy to fetch a maester, curled around something. Curled around Lyla. Instinctively, Jaime knelt at her feet and growled when the Greyjoy boy tried to pull her away from him.

"Theon get off me." A voice muttered, and Jaime almost smirked when Lyla shoved herself off of him. "I'm not a babe, Theon."

She had her hair tumbling down her shoulders and was holding her knees to her face- blood was trickling from her brow and she was shielding her arm from him. Anger sparked in Jaime when she looked up at him with her big blue eyes, "Your brother did this?"

"Yes but- wait, how did you know?"

"You're hurt." He grabbed the arm that she hid from him and pulled up her sleeve. She hissed as the fabric touched a tender spot and Jaime's eyes grew wide when they fell on a long, wide cut that reached all the way down her forearm. "I'll kill him." He muttered to himself.

Lyla rolled her eyes and scoffed. "You'll do no such thing."

Jaime looked up and leaned in closer to her, wiping blood from her temple. She was so strong, he thought as she recoiled her arm but didn't pull away from him. Cuts like that would make grown men cry, but there she sat, rolling her eyes at it as if it were nothing.

The maester didn't take long to find them, Theon glaring at Jaime who was staring at Lyla. He only moved when the maester asked it of him, and stayed close even after Theon's snide remark about her needing air.

"Can you walk, Lyla? We'll need to go back to my room in order to clean and wrap this correctly." The maester was about to help her to her feet, but Jaime curled his arms behind her back and under her knees, pulling her close to his chest as he stood.

"I'll carry the Lady Stark." He affirmed, Lyla rolling her eyes again.

"I can walk, Ser Jaime. My legs are fine." She told him quietly, her unhurt arm snaking around his neck and bringing her even closer to him.

She smelled of rosewater and blood, and her skin was warm despite the frosty chill in the air. "I don't care." He murmured into her ear.

Rose padded behind them, staying close to Jaime's feet as they walked to the maester's solar. It was placed by the hall that lead to the yard, probably because of how often the children got hurt swordfighting, and the walk was far too short, for they were there in merely minutes, Jaime laying Lyla on an open featherbed.

She sat up, despite the maester telling her to lay down, but she accepted the cloth that he handed her.

"Bite down on it," The old man ordered, and the little wolf girl complied, shrugging and sinking her teeth into the fabric. Jaime watched intently as the man grabbed a kettle from over the brazier and gave Lyla a look of question before she reached for his hand and nodded at the maester.

Liking the feel of her hand laced through his more than he expected to, he held her hand back, smiling at her as boiling wine was poured over her arm. Lyla's grip was as steel as the sword that sliced her and she flinched, but didn't cry. He respected her for not crying, but took note of the water that formed in her eyes as the maester began stitching her wound shut.

"How did this happen?" Jaime asked her, hoping talking would keep her from passing out from the pain.

She shrugged her left arm, the unharmed arm. "Robb swung at me," She gestured towards the halfway stitched arm with her free hand, and Jaime wondered when her hand left his, "and as you can see, I didn't dodge it fast enough. That reminds me… How'd you know I was practicing with my brother?"

"I guessed," He lied just as the door opened.

"Lyla!" Came a relieved voice. It was Eddard Stark, his eldest son trailing solemnly behind him. "Thank the gods… Robb said… Hells, Ly…"

Jaime went to leave, but she grabbed at his hand and smiled at her father. "I'm fine, father. Robb didn't mean to, I'm sure."

"I'm so sorry, Ly."

"I'll make sure to speak with you later, Robb." Eddard told his son over his shoulder before looking back to his daughter's arm. "So irresponsible… Didn't your mother forbid your swordfighting while the King is here?"

She shrugged her left arm, and Jaime squeezed her hand. "We're leaving tomorrow, I didn't think that it would really be that big of a deal."

"All done!" The maester announced, tying a thick ribbon around her arm. "Now, young lady, you will not be using this arm and it will stay in this sling," He wrapped a cloth around her arm and fastened the ties behind her neck, over her rich brown curls. "Until the moon becomes full again."

Lyla opened her mouth to protest, but Jaime gave her a dark look. There was no way he'd let her take it off before she should. "Yes maester." She smiled at the man as he handed her milk of the poppy and her father took Theon and Robb with him as he left, muttering about telling her mother about this. Tyrion followed suit.

"If only my mother cared…" He heard her whisper, and he felt a seed of pity growing in the pit of his stomach. Catelyn Stark hadn't moved from her son's- Bran's- room since the little lordling _fell_. Guilt grew along side pity then.

"She'll care." Jaime assured her, sitting at her feet as she pulled her knees to her face. "You're very brave, you know. I'm sure it took a lot not to cry."

Lyla smiled and tried to pull her hair out from under the restraints of the sling. "I've cried to you enough, don't you think?"

"Here…" Jaime leaned in close and his hands found their way to the back of her neck, resting on her milky skin for a moment before gently tugging her hair from under the sling's strap. "And I don't mind, really. If you want to cry, don't hold back. I told you not to hide from me."

They were close, so close, and Jaime's hands were still on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles on the bare skin there. They slid to her neck and traced up to her cheeks. _She's really lovely_, Jaime thought, staring at her in the dim candlelight. She was a beauty, a subtle beauty, but a beauty none the less. While she wasn't immediately eye-catching, the more Jaime looked at her the more he noticed the small things about her that made her such a northern rose. Her nose turned upwards just slightly, and her lips always held a curve- not a seductive curve, just a happy one. It was the little things he noticed that made him begin to compare her to his breathtaking twin, the one he came into the world with, the one he thought he loved.

While Lyla had dark brown curls and not golden, he wanted to bury his hands into the masses more than he ever had with Cersei. While her eyes were blue and not Lannister green, he still found himself lost in them.

"Thank you." She whispered, looking up at him through her lashes. Her long, thick, dark, lashes… "Ser Jaime?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked…about…never mind."

"Ask me."

"It's not-"

"Lyla, ask me."

His drop of her title as a lady did not go unnoticed and she looked down. Was that good or bad? He could almost hear her heart with how close they sat and he leaned in slightly closer, pushing his limits.

"I… Heard some rumors…"

He raised a brow. "About?"

She looked back up at him so innocently that he felt dirty. "About… the… please, it's really nothing. Can we just… go for a walk or something?"

Still curious about her question, Jaime was ready to decline, but as she leaned into him, just barely, he lost his train of thought. He leaned closer but then pulled away to ensure he didn't do anything stupid. She hid from him when he did stupid things. "Why don't we break our fasts. I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten yet."

* * *

The hall was near empty when they entered, Rose sitting by the door so that she didn't upset the southern guests. "She's well trained." Jaime commented, leading her to the royal table. She seemed hesitant and might have protested had he not already pulled out her chair. "Don't want my betrothed sitting uncomfortably." He hummed to her.

Lyla smiled courteously and nodded, then switched her eyes over to her direwolf. "She just listens is all. Ends up doing things before I even ask her to most of the time… Like we're connected or something." Her voice died down by the end of it and she pushed the food that he served her around on her plate.

Jaime nodded, understanding the feeling of being connected to something more than he hoped she would ever know. "I don't like you swordfighting." He said after a while, eyes locking on her sling.

"And why is that?" She asked, raising a brow.

"I don't want you hurt."

"Why do you care if I'm hurt?"

Just as he opened his mouth to answer, he heard a girlish gasp and turned to see the younger Stark girl gossiping with a plain brown haired girl before running to her sister's side.

Sansa was a pretty little thing, even Robert couldn't deny that much, but she reminded him of his almost marriage to Lysa Tully, well, Lysa Arryn now. He'd seen her before, Lysa, and waking up to her shrewd face every morning would be the death of him- but Lyla? He didn't think he'd mind waking up to her nearly as much.

"Lyla, what happened, sister?" Sansa rushed, kneeling at her sister's side. "Did Arya do this?"

Lyla smiled to hide a wince when Sansa touched her arm, and Jaime tried his best not to growl at the young girl for being stupid enough to touch the ribbons. "I'm alright, Sansa. It was just a slip of the sword while Robb and I were practicing."

Sansa rolled her eyes, "I don't see why you insist on using swords… Septa says that it's not ladylike."

"I'm not a lady, little sister. Why don't you take Rose out for a walk with Lady. I'm sure Jeyne would appreciate alone time with you before you leave."

"Didn't you hear from father? Jeyne's coming with us! Oh I'm _so_ excited!"

Lyla gave her sister a look of something he couldn't read and they both looked at him, two pairs of Tully blue eyes against his single set of Lannister green.

"I'll leave you to your peace, but I'll talk to you later. Good day, sister, my Lord Lannister."

Sansa left quickly and Lyla rolled her eyes. "Sorry about that. Sansa's just-"

"Don't worry about it." He gave her a smirk and she looked down, stealing a couple bites of sliced fruit.

They ate their meals silently and Jaime couldn't take his eyes off of her. She moved placidly, fluidly, and he had to keep his hands busy with eating or drinking so he didn't cup her cheek or brush hair from her face. He liked being gentle with someone- that was something Cersei never allowed, being gentle. He couldn't help but wonder if Lyla would grow to like his being gentle with her, or if she'd want him to be rough like his twin.

"Why are you so protective of me?"

The question took Jaime off guard and he noticed that her big blue eyes were staring at him curiously. "My father would be livid if my bride-to-be were hurt." He shrugged, "And I am to be a good husband. I'm not a fan of ladies being treated poorly, despite what others assume."

Lyla smiled. "I hoped not. And _I _never assumed anything."

Jaime could sit under her stare all day. He loved the way she looked at him- as though he were a man, not a monster. "Have you packed? We're leaving tomorrow."

"I'm aware." She slowly bit into a red berry and licked some of the sweet juice from the corner of her mouth. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to do that. "I've been packed for a week. Have you enjoyed your stay here?"

Jaime nodded. In all honesty, he had rather enjoyed the north and all of its rough inhabitants, but he missed the southern warmth sorely. "I have. It'll be nice to be home again, though."

"In King's Landing or Casterly Rock?"

"King's Landing is where I've spent more of my time, so I guess I meant there. Casterly Rock does sound comforting though. You know, when I was a boy, Tyrion and I would jump from the ledge of the Rock into the Sunset Sea. You'd love it, well, my sister did. The servants told me my mother did too. My mother loved anything beautiful, or so they say. I even heard them say my father bought her a garden just for herself."

Jaime started losing himself in thought. In thought of his mother. He missed her, missed being touched softly and being sung to sleep. Suddenly he felt a warmth on the hand he didn't know fell from his plate and looked up to see Lyla staring at him sadly, her fingers intertwined in his.

"I'm sorry. I know you lost your mother…" She gave his hand a squeeze and smiled. "If you ever want to talk, though, I'm here to listen."

He raised a brow. "Just listen, not say a word?"

She shook her head, and he watched in amazement as her thick brown curls bounced so freely- so much more beautiful than Cersei's birds nest. "I wouldn't say a word unless you asked me to."

He smiled and reached a hand out to cup her cheek. For a moment, he thought she was going to flinch away, but her smile widened and she leaned into it for a moment before releasing his hand and pulling the one on her cheek away softly.

"We're in public." Lyla whispered as she noticed the confusion in his eyes, patting his hand before pushing her chair out and rising.

"I could have done that for you." Jaime chuckled and got up after her, smiling as she looped her arm through his.

She shrugged her free arm and whistled for Rose, who bounded towards them and jumped on Lyla. She winced and Jaime looked at the direwolf sternly. "She's in no condition for that, little wolf."

Rose cocked her head and panted, then looked to Lyla, licked her right hand- careful of her arm- and moved to stand faithfully at her master's side, almost like she understood him.

"_She just listens is all. Ends up doing things before I even ask her to most of the time… Like we're connected or something."_

Her voice rang through his mind and he stared at the wolf until Lyla began walking. Maybe it was true. Maybe the wolves were smarter than given credit for- Lyla certainly was smarter that she was given credit for. _They only get smarter with time_, he thought as they made their way to the courtyard, by where they were conditioning the horses.

Theon and Jon gave her deathly curious glares from where they stood in the training yard, and she only smirked at them, winking. "Yes," She jested lightly, "How _scandalous_ that a woman and her betrothed are taking a walk."

Jaime faked a gasp and she laughed, Rose yipping. "Well, it is when the woman's betrothed is the Kingslayer."

"Stop." Lyla took her arm from his and sighed, standing in front of him. "Ser Jaime, you can't keep calling yourself that. I see how you flinch." She lifted her left hand to his neck and pressed a finger to a spot under his jaw. "Watch," She took in a deep breath, "_Kingslayer_."

He tried to stop from flinching but he knew she felt it from where her finger was. He gulped and looked down, but she pulled his chin up with her snowy finger so he looked her in the eyes. "A thousand men wanted to kill Aerys- just because _you_ killed him doesn't mean that you're vows were for naught. You protected women and children further from his wrath, you protected the queen from whatever punishment he might have dished up for her. You're not a monster, so don't give people a reason to think you are."

Lyla went to pull her hand away but he caught it and stared at her for a dangerously long time. No one had ever seen light in what he'd done, no one had ever tried to comfort him, not even Cersei; but this girl, this lovely northern woman, was giving him all the comfort he could have ever asked for from his twin.

He leaned in close to her and she quickly pushed up on her toes the rest of the way, meeting her lips with his cheek. It wasn't what he was going for, but he couldn't complain. "Thank you." Jaime murmured in her ear.

Lyla smiled, "Just don't make me regret agreeing to this."

_*A bit of a longer one because Jaime's a toughie to write... Hope I did him justice and kept him in character- I'll let y'all be the judges of that. :) I've really loved reading all these reviews and seeing all these favorites/follows. They seriously make me so excited I jump and squee! Haha. I'm sorry if this chapter isn't up to par with the others, either. Not having the best day... _  
_Shorter author's note- but hope that you enjoyed this installment! Next chapter, they're heading for KL! Will it be tense or calm or what? You'll have to keep reading to find out ;)_  
_I love and appreciate you all, little doves!_


	9. Chapter 9

The bath water was warm and inviting as Lyla sunk into it. It was early morning, just after dawn, but Sansa had slammed her bedroom door open and forced her awake before she had a chance to protest.

"What's it like to kiss a man?" Sansa asked from where she stood in Lyla's main chamber, holding up her sister's dresses to her frame in front of a tall looking glass.

Lyla raised a brow, "Why do you ask, sister?" The only times she'd kissed a man were when Jaime kissed her in the field behind the training yard and the previous day, when she'd kissed his scruffy cheek. She still wasn't sure why she'd been so kind to him, only that she didn't regret it as much as she probably should have.

"Jeyne Poole told me that you and Ser Jaime-"

"Sansa, I don't know how your beloved Jeyne finds out about those things, but they're personal and they're not for your ears." Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be and she sighed, closing her eyes as she sank further into the depths of the tub. The water was scented with fragrances that she'd brought back with her from her last trip to Highgarden; fragrances of roses and honey and something spicy she'd never been able to name.

Sansa walked into the bathing chamber and sat by the window, looking out at the rolling hills. "Aren't you excited? You're marrying a knight with golden hair, oh he's so handsome Lyla, aren't you in the least bit excited?"

Lyla laughed at her sister's voice as it grew more and more eager. "He'll be a lord, Sansa, he's not a knight. At least he won't be for much longer."

"But he _was_ a knight- the best in the Realm!"

"I'll have to leave the capitol soon after arriving, Sansa. To leave for the Rock."

Sansa shrugged and looked at her sister with big moon eyes. "We can send ravens. And surely Her Grace would let us visit you when you have a baby- Oh Lyla you'll have such beautiful golden babies! They'll be so pink and pretty with such beautiful hair and-"

"Are you sure that you're not talking about your own excitement to wed the crowned prince?" Lyla's eyes opened and she looked to her sister. Sansa was so beautiful- bold red curls and simply lovely blue eyes, both of which stood out intensely against her snowy pale skin. But the prince… Lyla didn't get a good vibe from him, and the way he looked at Sansa, as though she were a possession and not his betrothed, didn't help.

Sansa blushed and looked down. "Isn't he just beautiful? He's my prince and he'll be my husband and we'll have perfect yellow haired babies."

Lyla finished scrubbing her skin and lathering her hair, and was rinsing it out as Sansa continued.

"We'll be married as soon as I'm a woman grown I bet- oh that's so soon! I'm terribly excited."

She got up to help her sister out of the tub and Lyla quickly patted herself dry with a towel before slipping into a thick robe. "You sound as though you already love him, Sansa." Lyla laughed and changed into her smallclothes, Sansa handing her a far too formal gown for riding. "Have you forgotten I'm riding with the rest of them?"

Careful of her stitches, Sansa wrapped a fresh ribbon around her forearm and shrugged. "You're _supposed_ to love you husband- and Father said you can't ride anymore because of your arm." She offered the thin, whispy blue gown that would compliment her eyes again.

Lyla shook her head. "Since when do I listen to anyone but myself?" She jested lightly, pulling out a much more modest light grey gown with green stitching and laces. Sansa was going to argue, but Lyla raised her brow as though she dared her to. Sighing in defeat, the younger Stark daughter helped her sister dress in the modest riding gown and then tied the sling over her neck, slightly tighter than was necessary. "Ow." Lyla gruffed, but Sansa only frowned.

"It would be much easier to sit in a litter than riding with your arm bouncing around."

"I don't care. I'm riding."

"Mother will be furious."

"Mother won't _care_. The last time I spoke to her she told me she'd rather Bran be awake and I be the one who fell."

Sansa's frown went from slightly angry to purely sorrowful. "I didn't know… I'm sure she didn't mean it Lyla, she's just upset."

Lyla shrugged and grabbed a brush, running it through her hair where she sat by the lit brazier to help it dry. Sansa was already dressed for the day, adorned in a gown of thin wools, yellow and black to show her budding alliance with Prince Joffrey Baratheon, bright curls left flowing around her shoulders aside from two tight braids atop her head that twisted together in the back. She envied her sister in a way. Sansa was always proper, always prim and neat and ready, whereas Lyla was always late, always rushing and never really acted like a lady.

When her hair was mostly dry the curls began to scrunch up and tighten, looking fluffier than she was used to. Sansa bit her lip as she thought on how to fix it, but Lyla shook her head. "It'll fluff in the wind as I ride anyways." She insisted, her sister helping her pull tall back riding boots over her legs.

"Maybe you should let me braid it…"

"I'd rather not. It's only fall out when I ride."

Sansa smiled, "But I'm good at it. Please sister, please let me!"

After a few more moments of going back and forth, Lyla surrendered to Sansa's begging and sat back in her chair as her sister twisted and plaited her unruly brown curls. She thought she would have dozed off, had Sansa not started to talk again.

"Does Ser Jaime have soft lips?"

"Sansa!" Lyla looked up at her sister over her shoulder. "I thought this subject was dead."

Sansa grinned. "You're blushing."

Lyla touched her cheek softly and felt the warmth, not knowing when it got there. "Your Jeyne Poole seems to know a lot about it, why not ask her?"

"That's preposterous! Jeyne's only ever kissed Theon."

"And I've never kissed anyone."

"But Jeyne said-" Sansa looked down and thought for a moment before a smile played on the corner of her lips. "_He_ kissed _you,_ didn't he?"

The blush faded as she thought of how she slapped him and ran away. He shouldn't have done it, she thought, kissed her that is. But at the same time, she was thinking of how she kissed him- on the cheek not the lips- and how she only smiled at him after. He had opened up to her though, looked almost in pain as he recalled his memories of Casterly Rock and his mother. She also remembered how he'd carried her inside after she missed her duck from Robb's slash.

He'd let her hold his hand, held it back even, and she recollected how her father stared at their interlocked fingers before he left, grumbling. She figured she should play nice with him and found herself enjoying it as they walked through the courtyard. Their walk abruptly ended after she kissed his cheek, though, when Arya came running by and pulled her away to help her hide from Septa Mordane.

"Did he, Lyla?"

Sansa had already finished plaiting her hair and was standing in front of her. How long had she been lost in thought? "Yes, he did." Lyla admitted, laughing when Sansa squeaked.

"Oh really? Was it wonderful? Was it passionate? Septa said that lords and their lady wives should always share kisses- to they show their love."

"We're not married yet, little sister." Lyla rolled her eyes and stood, inspecting the plait in the looking glass. It was fine work, tight but not painful. "And it was quick. Nothing to sing about."

Sansa looked sad. "What if my first kiss with Joffrey is nothing to sing about?"

Lyla raised a brow. "Your first kiss with Joffrey won't be until your wedding day, I hope."

"Of course!" Her sister blushed beet red and looked over to the window. "We should go to the main hall and break our fasts before we have to say our goodbyes."

* * *

It was almost like a feast- the tables were full of meats and bread and fancy wines and, to Sansa's excitement, cakes. Even the lemon kind she loved so much. They sat with what members of their family were awake; Robb, Jon, and Arya, Eddard sitting beside Lyla not long after she filled her plate.

"How's your arm?" Asked Robb with soft eyes.

Lyla smiled, "Fine. Robb, it's not your fault. I should have been wearing armor."

"Like they'd ever make armor for a woman," Theon jested, sipping on a cup of wine.

"Isn't it a bit early for you to drink, Greyjoy?" Jon smirked when Eddard raised a brow at the chalice, nodding in agreement to his son.

Theon set the cup down and huffed, rolling his bright eyes. Lyla would miss those eyes. She would miss the way he laughed and jested with her when no one else would.

"Lyla," Eddard turned slightly to face her, noticing the riding gown. "I don't want you riding. Your arm is hurt enough as it is and I'll not have it."

Lyla's brows rose. "I've broken my leg before and still rode the very next day!"

"This is different- you'll not be riding with northerners who will help you if you fall. We'll be surrounded by men from the south, and they'll not take it kindly when they see a highborn lady trying to ride with them and asking for assistance."

"I don't see why it matters… Father, I'm better in the saddle than any of them! Besides, Willas Tyrell picked out Morrow especially for me, it's not like I'm riding a simple-minded lame stallion."

"Lyla your arm-"

"Father, I'm not a little girl, don't worry about me. I'll be fine on Morrow and I won't say a word the whole trip." Robb and Theon both gave her hellish grins at her mention of not speaking and she wrinkled her nose at them.

Eddard regarded her for a moment before letting out a long, exasperated sigh. "We're riding out as soon as the King has woken up and broken his fast. If you're to ride with us, I'll not hear a complaint from you the whole way or you'll be sent back to Winterfell."

Lyla beamed and kissed her father's cheek before he rose and grabbed an apple.

"I expect you to say goodbye to your mother when you go to Bran."

Her smile fell. "Yes, father."

She wasn't looking forward to seeing her mother, not after she'd been told of her mother's wishes that it was her who fell and not Bran. She didn't even think she'd say goodbye to Bran in fear of seeing Catelyn, but she pushed those ideas away days ago.

Theon noticed the frown on her lips and tried to give her a light smile. "Would you like an escort, my lady?"

She nodded softly, rising and taking his arm when he offered it. She'd lost whatever apatite she had.

"Theon, I don't know what I'm going to do without you." Lyla whispered as they walked through the hall to Bran's room.

Theon smiled down at her. "I always thought we'd get married, you know."

"I know. I did too." It wasn't a lie. She always had a soft spot for Theon- he was handsome and always kind to her. As they grew up together her father and mother even suggested the match, but it never ended up happening.

"I'm going to miss you, Stark." Theon murmured as they slowly stopped walking, turning to face one another. "I wish that it was us marrying. That way you could stay here. Stay home."

While not a Stark, Winterfell was more home to Theon than the Iron Islands, and Lyla always liked how he regarded it as such. "Your father would never allow it anyways. That's probably why we aren't engaged right now." She laughed lightly and then frowned. "Theon, this won't be the last time we speak will it?"

"Of course not, we've got all day."

"Theon I'm serious!"

He sighed and shrugged, "I'll write if you do."

"Of course I'll write." Lyla rolled her eyes and let a smile play on her lips. She wouldn't be without him forever, she knew, but it would still be hard. Theon was her best friend, and she saw him every single day aside from her trips to Riverrun or Highgarden. It would be a tough transition.

They began walking again then, and reached Bran's chamber all too soon. Lyla looked to Theon and he smiled reassuringly before she stepped inside.

The atmosphere was thick and smelled faintly of mildew, and the floorboards creaked under her feet as she went to her little brother's bedside. "Hey Bran." She whispered, her voice cracking more than she was expecting. "I'm going to King's Landing with Sansa and Arya, you know. I'm going to come back and see you as soon as I can though, I promise."

She ran her left hand through his thick hair and felt tears prickling in her eyes. It didn't seem so long ago that she was helping him practice his swordsman skills, telling him he was kind and brave and would be a great warrior one day. "I'll miss you so much, Bran… I'm so sorry that I haven't visited more, I know I should have but…"

Tears were falling then and she kissed her brother's brow. "I'll come see you as soon as you wake up." It was hard for her, talking to him without him answering. "I'll bring you presents and a sword and-" She heard a floorboard creak and looked up.

Her mother had changed into a soft green dress with long sleeves and a loose skirt. Blood red curls spiraled all around her shoulders to her elbows and she looked to have bathed. "So it's true." Catelyn whispered, staring at the sling around her arm that was still much too tight.

"It's nothing really, only a scratch." Lyla gave her mother a weak smile and winced in pain when Bran's direwolf, who had been sitting loyally at his owner's side, nudged it with curiosity.

Catelyn stepped closer to her and frowned. "You're leaving today." When Lyla said nothing, only nodded, she continued. "I know you're marrying the Kingslayer."

Lyla raised a brow. "Father told you?"

"No, I saw you yesterday from the window." _Oh_. Lyla forgot that Bran and Arya's windows both faced the courtyard. "There's still time to back out, Lyla. You can still say no."

"I'm already packed. It's decided."

"I can find you a better husband. One that's honest and will be good to you. Theon is-"

"Mother, that match is impossible. I'm marrying Ser Jaime at the King's command."

"Why are you defending your betrothal to him?"

"Why do you hate him?"

There was an eerie silence before Catelyn spoke again. "The Lannisters are not trustworthy. He broke his vows to protect the King-"

"Mother, if Jaime hadn't killed King Aerys there wouldn't be any Starks left in the world. He would have killed Father and none of us would have been born; Bran, Robb, Rickon, Sansa, Arya, and I would never have existed!"

Catelyn was glaring at her then and growled, "I want you to leave." And so she did, without a second thought.

* * *

The sun was fully in the sky by the time she and Theon came back from Bran's chamber to the main hall. It was much fuller and the royal table was packed with the Queen, the royal children, and King Robert. Lancel gave Lyla a conspicuous glare until a hand reached her shoulder and he looked away.

"Shame he did not learn to respect you the first time I talked to him."

She did not have to turn her head to confirm who it was; she'd recognized his voice. "My mother found out about our betrothal." Lyla whispered to him as Theon growled and stalked away to join Robb and Jon. Rickon was being bounced on Septa's lap, but as soon as his eyes caught Lyla's he yipped in excitement and ran over to her. She smiled and winced when he jumped up on her, crying out in pain as he tried to climb onto her right arm.

Jaime pulled Rickon from her, green eyes drenched in worry. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." She sighed and Rickon looked up at her apologetically.

"I'm sorry Lyla…" He muttered, burying his face in her skirts and hugging her legs.

Lyla kneeled down and did her best to pick him up with her left arm, allowing him a few moments to get comfortable on her hip with her arm around him after she straightened up. "It's alright, little wolf. You didn't know."

"What did your mother have to say about our betrothal?" Jaime asked as he led Lyla to a table that didn't have Starks, Lannisters, or Baratheons crowding it. Respectfully, he sat across from her, and Rickon slid into her lap as she sat, gobbling up milk as soon as they were seated.

Lyla shrugged, sipping some milk herself. "A lot."

"Lyla, you know I hate shit answ-"

"Jaime!" She gasped and looked down at Rickon in her lap, who was wide eyed at the large spicecake she placed on his plate.

He pursed his lips. "Sorry. Lyla, you know I hate _stupid_ answers."

"She said Lannisters are untrustworthy and begged me to find a way out of the betrothal before she commanded me to leave." Lyla replied before biting into a thick slice of honeyed bread. Her mother's words had stung her. _I want you to leave, I want you to leave, I want you to leave_. It kept replaying in her mind and she looked down, sighing. "She hates me."

Jaime reached his hand to her left forearm and shook his head. "Lyla, your mother doesn't hate you. She hates me probably, but not you. You're her daughter."

"She told me she'd rather I fell, not Bran."

He winced and she raised a brow. She'd only ever seen him wince when he was called Kingslayer. His hand retreated and Lyla cradled Rickon closer. "She's grieving for her son. My sister went through the same. She had a boy before- it was her first child. He looked just like Robert, black hair and big blue eyes. He was strong, but too young to fight off the fever. Oh she cried and kicked and screamed, even Robert beat his hands bloody on the wall, but the boy…"

Lyla looked to where the Queen sat and frowned. _The poor Queen_. She didn't have love in her marriage, she lost her first child, and she looked so unhappy- not in the fake smile she plastered to her lips for the Princess Myrcella who asked her a question, but in her eyes. Jaime's exact color.

She turned to look at Jaime then and he looked more lost in thought than she'd ever seen him. She couldn't help but think of what Sansa was talking about that morning, _Oh he's so handsome Lyla, aren't you in the least bit excited?_ He _was_ handsome, she had to admit. His golden hair waved slightly and his green eyes were like fields, but she didn't know if she was _excited_ about the prospect of marrying him. She'd have to stay out of trouble and be a prim, proper young lady like Sansa- all day and all night. Lyla was about to snap him out of his trance but the King's voice boomed over the hall.

"Alright, let's get riding before I piss myself!"

Queen Cersei rolled her eyes and ushered the princess and princes to the litter, Septa doing the same with Sansa and Arya. Lyla looked down at Rickon, who looked back up at her with a frown.

"Do you have to go now, Ly?"

She nodded and hugged him as tight as she could with her one free arm. "Yes, little wolf, I have to go now."

Rickon's eyes immediately filled with water and he clung to her as she stood. Robb made his way to her, Theon in tow, and he looked at her sadly, trying to pry their brother from her. "No, no, no!" Rickon cried, tears dribbling down his cheeks. "_No!_"

Quickly, Robb handed Rickon to Theon when he pulled him from Lyla and Greyjoy tried his best to hold him and carry him away. Rickon was relentlessly kicking and pounding his tiny pale fists on their father's ward's back though, crying for his sister.

Lyla could feel tears in her eyes too, and Robb rested a heavy hand on her left shoulder. "It's okay, Lyla. He'll stop eventually."

"I'm going to miss you so much." Lyla rushed out, hopping onto her brother, careful of her right arm, and wrapping her left arm around his neck. "I'll be lost without you."

Robb returned her embrace warmly and placed a brotherly kiss on her head before letting her down. "Next time I see you, you'll be Lady Lannister."

"A lady? Someone must warn the gods!" They both fell into laughter, Lyla clutching her stomach with her left arm and Robb slapping his knee with his hand. It was warm and happy until something bitterly sad planted itself in Lyla. This was going to be the last time she would see her brother in who knew how long. She'd be living the rest of her life without him, though she'd spent the better half of it with him. Her laughter quickly turned to tears as her mind raced and Robb pulled her into another hug.

"It'll be alright, Ly. I'll write all the time. You're not losing me."

It almost sounded as though he were trying to convince himself and she nuzzled closer to his neck. "I know." She sniffled, pulling away and wiping her tears. Jaime coughed and she looked up at him as he slid an arm around her shoulders.

"It's time to go."

* * *

Though Lyla had shrugged his arm from her shoulders, she didn't object to the feel of his fingers barely gracing her elbow. It was comforting, and she needed to be comforted.

The fresh air was crisp as they stepped outside, Lyla, Jaime, and Robb, a light breeze dancing through the trees and shaking pine needles and leafs from them. Clouds hung wearily in the sky, covering the sun with a thick coat of grey.

Boxes of wine and their trunks were filling carts, and Lyla guess Sansa and Arya were already in the litter with the Queen, since she hadn't seen them since the King announced they would be leaving. Jaime excused himself to collect their horses and Robb went to find their sisters to say goodbye.

Goodbye. The word hung as heavily in the air as the clouds, and Lyla wished she didn't have to go all of a sudden. This was her home, Winterfell was her home, and she would hate any place that wasn't the North- Highgarden being the only exception. What if Eddard was right and the southern men sneered at her? She scoffed at that thought though. She was a Stark of Winterfell, she didn't have the time to care what they thought of her. She had a duty to her father, to the King, to Jaime. She needed to go.

"You're going to miss this place." Came a deep voice behind her and she nodded.

"More than I thought possible. It's my home." Lyla turned and smiled when she saw Morrow, already tacked up, reins in Jaime's hand.

He dropped the stallion's lead and put his hands on her waist, letting them linger for a moment before he hoisted her into the saddle. "I think you'll learn to love the South." Lyla shook her head, knowing she wouldn't, but he only smiled and slowly slipped his hands from her hips. "I could always make you love it."

"Ha." Lyla snorted and he hopped onto his horse, an all white mare with a long, lovely mane and armor that matched the golden set Jaime wore that day. "Don't think I'm scared of you, Lannister."

Jaime raised a brow and smirked that damn smirk. "Good that you're not. This would be a boring match if you were."

"Oi, let's get a goddamn move on! Kingslayer, get your golden arse over here!" King Robert bellowed, trying to climb atop his black warhorse.

Lyla couldn't say it was unexpected that she wouldn't be riding with Jaime, but she still sighed. Jaime smiled at her though and patted her hand. "That's the second time my arse had been called golden, you know." She knew he was trying to make her smile and it worked.

Not able to refuse the image that flashed in her mind, she laughed and Jaime's smile grew. "I'll be watching you." He told her before whipping his mare around and trotting to the King. Eddard was with them and smiled to her solemnly before the King screamed that they were taking off.

The first steps away were easy, but the further they went, the harder it became to leave. While Lyla wasn't opposed to the opportunity, she had the gut wrenching feeling she wouldn't see Winterfell again for a long, long time. Morrow must have sensed it too, because without her order he stopped and whinnied at Winterfell's gates, Rose howling at the hooves of the stallion.

"Come on," She urged, but once they were outside the gates she felt a sort of warm protection slip from her. She was going away, to marry of all things, and she wouldn't return home- not in years at least. She'd stepped over the boundary that was her childhood. She could hear Rickon crying for her in the courtyard where Robb held him and felt everyone's staring eyes on the back of her head, and as she galloped away and wind licked her skin, wrapped around her plaited hair, and eased the uncomfortable throbbing in her right arm, she could feel tears prickling in her eyes. When she looked to where Jon rode beside her for comfort, he smiled and nodded, and she nodded back. She was a Stark of Winterfell, not a little girl, and no matter if she was in the North or the South, winter was coming and she would be fine wherever she went.

_*Decided to treat you all with another chapter for not writing in so long- I'll try and keep the updates coming at a quicker pace! Hope that you all liked the chapter- I thought it was a tad emotional, but figured that I should go all out since it'll be a while until they all see each other again... Also, do you guys want a couple chapters on the King's Road or more like, two of them and then King's Landing? I'm more partial to writing two because I know you guys can get bored with a ton of them, but let me know if you want more than that, I'm open to adding more to the story line I wrote up :)_  
_Just wanted to thank you all for reading- even if you don't review just knowing that people take the time to read the story gives me the big fuzzies. ( Not that reviewing, following and favoriting don't help hehe ;) )_  
_Hope you all have beautiful evenings, I love and appreciate you all, little doves!_


	10. Chapter 10

It was the third day of riding, and Jaime felt as though they'd moved only inches. "Slow down, Robert, or you'll give the children headaches!" Cersei would hiss through the litter, and Jaime thought the only thing that saved her from a beating was the fact that Eddard Stark was there.

While they were traveling in style, it would surely take a month to get back home, but it was another month he had to prepare for married life with Lyla. She'd been riding mostly with her bastard brother, Jon, and her uncle, Benjen, the three days since they'd left Winterfell, laughing and jesting and rolling her eyes at Carinya. Carinya was the maid Jaime had arranged to stay with her in her tent and keep tabs on her, for he had the king to attend to and he didn't want her far from his eyes- even if they weren't exactly his.

Lyla would send him smiles every so often and he would send them right back- it was easy to smile at her, to talk with her, to share things with her; and Jaime liked that. With Cersei it had always been about _her_ and it had always been rough, but Lyla seemed to be used to the steady, gentle life, to prefer it even. And she always listened. He could still remember the first and so far only time he'd really opened up to her, the day they walked through the courtyard and she'd kissed his cheek. Instinctively, his hand reached up to cup it gingerly at the memory, but he quickly pulled it back when he heard someone calling his name.

"Uncle Jaime, is it true that you're going to Casterly Rock once we get home?" Jaime turned his head and smiled at little Myrcella who, at only eight, looked a spitting image of her mother. Her golden curls were pulled back and twisted into a Northern braided bun, much like the way that Lyla's was, and her green eyes glittered as the evening sun hit them just so. While she looked so much like the Cersei Jaime fell in love with, Myrcella had none of her mother's nature and instead was goodly and gentle.

Rearing his horse around to ride along side Myrcella and Lyla, he smiled. "Not right away. I promise I'll stay as long as I can before I go, my golden girl."

Myrcella beamed at the name as color flooded her cheeks and she nodded. "Will you and Aunt Lyla visit Tommen and I? We'll miss you so."

Lyla raised a brow, lips toying into a smirk. "I thought we went over this, dear princess. I'm not yet married to your Uncle."

"Oh but you will be won't you?" Jaime hadn't even noticed Tommen riding on the other side of Lyla, who all of a sudden peeked around her shoulder from his seat on a pony as gold as his Lannister locks.

"Don't worry sweet prince," Lyla rubbed the boy's back as best she could with her one free hand, squeezing into the saddle with her knees to keep from falling off before she took the reins again. "You can't be rid of me that easily."

Myrcella and Tommen had asked to ride with Lyla after the first day of traveling, complaining to their king father that they were terribly cooped up and wanted to get to know the woman that was to be their aunt. Jaime understood what courage it took the children to fly from under their mother's protective wings, and he only loved them more for it. Since being out of under Cersei's grasp, the children were much more talkative, funny even, as he heard them jest and tease with his betrothed, and it only took the second day for them to come to the realization that they adored Lyla.

It seemed everyone was growing on the girl that was to be Jaime's wife. She was the picture of Northern beauty, which the women all fawned over, yet she knew how to hold a sword and sit in the saddle better than over half of the southern men, and so naturally they flocked to her too. She seemed to be what Cersei strived to be, only better. Cersei did not like that.

"She's a_ fool _and a _whore_. I bet she's already given her cunt to every soldier she's seen since getting out of that _wasteland_." His twin growled one night, tossing her hair over her shoulder and sipping on a sweet Dornish red.

Jaime had shrugged it off then, but how long could he do that? Surely not the full travel south. Regardless, he had a month to think of what to say to his sister- to break it to her that he, after countless hours of being lost in thought over it, found himself enjoying his betrothed's company. He found himself listening to her, teaching her about southern customs, leaning in to those beautiful smiles just to see them better. It was no question she was a good match for him- smart and witty and beautiful, but to Cersei, she was just another commoner. No, not a commoner, a threat.

"Don't you love me anymore?" Cersei would ask, wide green eyes moist from fake angst.

Despite all the budding feelings he had for his bride-to-be, and the depleting ones for his sister, the answer was always, "Yes." And no, it wasn't a lie. Jaime loved his twin with all his heart- he had since the day he came into the world, with her at his side always. Nothing would change that, not even Lyla, at least no so quickly anyways. He would always have a spot in his heart for Cersei, but he began to question how big that spot should be.

However, riding with Myrcella, Tommen, and Lyla and listening to stories of his little bride's childhood in Winterfell, Jaime felt those thoughts slipping away into oblivion. In that moment, with his sweet nephew, golden girl, and soon-to-be wife, Jaime could only focus on_ them_, on how Myrcella blushed at Lyla's tomboyish adventures and how Lyla's Tully blue eyes glimmered as she recalled her memories- all while Tommen gaped in awe.

"I was six when Robb and Theon took me down to the creek. Jon was abed sick and I wanted to ride this tub of wheat," Lyla patted her horse's withers and smiled. "So they took me to Winter Creek in the godswood and, because I hadn't saddled Morrow properly, the saddle slid right off of him and I fell into the creek!"

Myrcella squeaked a laugh and Tommen gasped. "You must be invincible!"

"Of course I am," Lyla grinned and leaned closer to him. "But don't tell your Uncle. I fear he may put that notion to the test." She winked before regaining balance on her stallion's back and Myrcella brightened up as if she thought of a new story she'd like to hear.

"Aun- Lady Lyla, where did you get Morrow? He's beautiful."

"From Willas Tyrell. I've been going to Highgarden since I was little, because Lord Mace and my Mother wanted to match me to Willas. They sent me there for at least a month every year- Oh Cella you'd _love _it. You can smell it a mile away, roses and honey and rivers, and it's so beautiful."

Myrcella looked engrossed in the story already, wide eyed and gasping. Jaime raised a brow at Lyla's nickname for her, knowing only those that were close to her were the allowed to call her Cella- she didn't even like Cersei calling her by that name. "Please, go on!"

Lyla nodded, brown curls dripping from the braided bun she wore- the very one that Myrcella was sporting. "Well, as it turned out, Margaery Tyrell and I were very close in age, her being only a few months older than I, and I began going on my own will just to see her- and on my sixth name day a feast was held there, and I went with Sansa and my Mother. Willas gave me Morrow as a present and kissed my cheek- but then the accident happened."

While Myrcella was _begging_ to know what accident occurred, Jaime could only think of how Willas _bloody_ Tyrell had stolen the first kiss on the cheek Lyla ever received from a man. It wasn't a true kiss, but it was a kiss. Overcome with a sense of possessiveness, Jaime leaned over Myrcella and planted a sloppy, wet kiss on his bride-to-be's cheek, the right one, which she'd pointed to as she told her tale, and smirked with the surge of power that warmed him.

Lyla stopped mid sentence and stared at him with wide blue eyes, cheeks pinkening, but not as bright as Myrcella's. Slowly she reached a hand up to her cheek and made to wipe the wetness away, but the sound of the King's voice stilled her movements.

"Not even your wife wants your kisses, Kingslayer!" Called Robert, who fell into a fit of laughter, Benjen Stark and Jon Snow laughing along with him and the rest of the southern men.

Jaime opened his mouth to retort, but Lyla shot him a quick _"shut up"_ look before smiling at the King in that heart winning way he loved so much. "Once I'm his wife I'll want his kisses, Your Grace, you can count on that."

Robert grinned, commented that she reminded him so much of her aunt, then resumed his conversation with Eddard. Myrcella excused herself, blushing and saying she and Tommen should go to their mother before she got angry, Tommen nodding and ridding off with his sister. Jaime smirked.

"You'll want my kisses, hm?"

"As much the King wants water."

Jaime took it as a compliment at first, then slowly realized that Robert never really drank water. Not even when he got sick, he wouldn't have a thing to do with it. Shooting Lyla a confused look, she broke into a laugh, one that revealed her jest, and he sighed, smiling lightly. "How's your arm? Is Carinya taking care of you?"

Lyla shrugged her left arm and looked down at the sling. "I'm not dead yet, so she must be doing a good job."

"Lyla, I'm serious."

"Okay, okay." She rolled her blue, blue eyes and looked to him. "It's still in pain and she does a terrible job wrapping the sling. It's always so tight…"

Jaime noticed it was tight from the moment he laid eyes on her that morning and, as if on cue with his thoughts, Robert called to them and told them it was time to make camp. "Let me help you." He murmured as she struggled with her skirts and she nodded.

Quickly, Jaime dismounted and tossed the reins to a waiting horsehand, then went to Lyla's left, plucking her off her prized stallion with ease. "Turn." He instructed, and she did, but only after raising a brow at him in question. He unraveled her braided bun, inhaling the scents that flowed from her hair as he loosened it with his fingers, brushing it gentle over her shoulder. Lyla seemed to purr as his fingers ran through her hair and he made a mental note of it. It only took a moment to untie and retie the sling's ribbon, and she rolled her neck around as he tried to massage away the tension.

"Thank you." Lyla hummed, turning to look at him. He took in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the tip of her button nose, and those lovely, long brown curls that he never thought he'd be so interested in. He remembered clearly what he thought when he first saw her- running through the welcoming crowd in Winterfell and snuggling in between her brother and sister. She looked like a mess, out of breath with wild hair he detested at first, but he soon realized those locks of deep red-brown were probably his favorite thing about her, aside from her eyes. When Jaime first saw her, her big, bright blue Tully eyes were the only thing he had liked on her, and now, just a few short weeks later, they were still his favorite part of her.

Lost in thought and the moment, Jaime leaned in to kiss her. His lips were almost at hers, he could feel her hot breath on him, even and steady, blue eyes lovely against the pink tinted grey of the clouded sunset sky. It was all working in slow motion, beautiful and soft- until she spoke, that is.

"Why did you kiss my cheek?" She asked, as if to save herself from the intensity of the moment.

Jaime frowned, pulling away and sighing. "Can a man not kiss his betrothed?"

Lyla raised a brow. "Not so messily, no. Tell me." Her back straightened, like she was trying to gain a powerful composure- Jaime only thought it was funny, though refrained from laughing so not to hurt her feelings.

"I kissed your cheek because I was…"

"Jealous?"

"No, not jealous."

"Really?"

"Really."

Lyla stared at him for a long time before her lips curved into the most delicious smirk. "You're lying." She accused, poking his shoulder with her left index finger. "You're jealous. Admit it."

Jaime shook his head. "Not a bit. Willas_ bloody_ Tyrell can kiss whoever he wants."

"Oh? And if I told you Theon kissed me too?" Her lips were cat-like, curling. Her eyes were even more seductive, flickering as lightly as her hair, which was being tugged at in the gentle gust of wind that tore through the camp, which was slowly being set up. "And what if Ser Loras kissed me, too? What then?"

Jaime scowled at her disapprovingly. All this talk of her kissing others was affecting him more than he was aware, and at every new name he began to growl deeper and deeper.

But Lyla's smirk only grew at that as she started walking away, listing names as she went. "Jory Cassel, Garlan Tyrell…" Jaime followed and turned her around once they reached the first tree by grasping her shoulder, her right one, and spinning her around until she faced him.

His lips attacked hers, viciously and angrily, a fight of passion- at least for him. Lyla cried out, and not in pleasure, after he pulled her close to him, the flat of his hand splaying on the expanse of her lower back. Instinctively, his eyes snapped open and he looked down, letting her pull away.

Her eyes weren't on him as his were on her, though, and she protectively tried to cradle her right arm closer to her by covering it with the left. "What in the _hells_, Lannister!" She hissed, tears dripping from the corners of her eyes. Her cut must have hurt her more than Jaime gave her credit for, and he bit his lip.

"I'm so sorry, I was just-"

"Being _stupid_! Gods, you're such an _ass_!" Lyla swatted his shoulder before wiping the tears with the back of her hand and making to leave.

Jaime grabbed at her left arm but she shook free of his grasp quickly, and he watched her stalk off, being joined by Carinya and her direwolf, Rose.

"_Damnit_!" Jaime scoffed, kicking the dirt with the toe of his boot.

* * *

_"Don't hide from me." He told her, serious green eyes melting into bright blue ones. His finger was under her chin and he wanted to pull her in and hold her, but she was still shaken up from the confrontation with bloody Lancel only moments ago._

_Lyla had looked at him almost defiantly when she told him, "Don't do stupid things and I won't hide."_

* * *

The conversation was only a few days over a week ago and he'd already done something stupid. How could he forget about her arm? He'd been so concerned about it only a few minutes ago and there he went, squishing it and prying his fingers into her right shoulder, which was so tense when he massaged it that there was no doubt she was in dire pain.

Hadn't he wanted to be gentle with her? Hadn't he wanted to take his time and do things right? Apparently his angry mind would have nothing to do with his rational mind, and he clenched his fists. She was only jesting, yet she paid for it.

"If I had known you were so keen on pissing the girl off, I would have protested the marriage myself." Jaime turned and sighed, looking down to see his younger brother, Tyrion, grinning back up at him. "What did you do this time?"

Jaime leaned against the tree, watching Lyla and Carinya speak, Rose dancing around her master, whining worriedly. "She was joking about kissing other men an-"

Tyrion raised a brow. "Don't tell me, you chased after her and were in such a blind fit of rage that you hit her. Please gods say you didn't hit her…"

"Don't be stupid!" Jaime hissed, brows knitting together. The thought of anyone hitting Lyla was making him angry again, the thought of_ him_ being the one to do it idiotic. "I went after her and I kissed her."

"She's that upset over a kiss?"

"I grabbed her shoulder. Her right one. And I…" Jaime didn't like discussing personal matters, not with anyone, but Tyrion only looked up at him, waiting. Listening. He took a breath before he continued. "I pulled her closer and…"

Tyrion sighed. "You didn't remember her arm is cut from elbow to wrist. Jaime, that's foolish- even for you- to forget. I wouldn't be surprised if it opened back up, it's so new."

Jaime's eyes widened at the thought of it and he bit his lip, horrified. How could he have been so careless? "I should go to her."

"No, you need to let her be mad first. If she's upset right now, all that blood flowing through her will do no good for her arm… No, just leave her be for a while. It's not worth all the trouble for a quick fix of closure tonight."

Knowing Tyrion was right, he sighed and let his brother lead him to his tent. While his eyes were reluctant to leave Lyla for a moment before he entered the tent, he caught sight of Jon Snow giving him a deathly curious glance, eyes shifting from him to Lyla and back again, and he opened the flap to the tent and let himself in.

Tyrion's tent was light and airy, red of fabric but grey, black, and gold everywhere else, as if he attempted to mix the colors of Stark and Lannister. Books were strewn about as though they'd been there for moons passed, and his bed was messily made. Tyrion motioned for Jaime to sit, and so he did, as his brother poured two glasses of wine.

"Will she be alright?" Jaime muttered worriedly, looking into the depths of the dark red liquid. It smelled coyingly sweet as it assaulted his nose, making him want to sneeze the scent back out.

Tyrion nodded. "I'm sure she'll be fine. That handmaid you sent her has the magic touch."

Jaime raised a brow. "In bed or otherwise?"

"In bed, of course."

"Please don't tell me I've sent her a whore for a maid."

"They're the only ones who don't give a rat's arse about politics, so you needn't worry about her sending reports to anyone but you." After considering it for a moment, Jaime sighed and ran a hand through his golden curls, again knowing Tyrion was right. "As they say, brother," Tyrion smiled and sipped at his wine. "You may be pretty one, but I'm far cleverer."

Jaime knew that all too well and huffed a laugh. "You can't go getting your golden arse in trouble with her like that, you know. She's a Stark- maybe she's crude and jests like a man, but she's still a Lady." Jaime knew that too, and rolled his Lannister green eyes.

"I know. She can just be so… frustrating."

"That's how women are, I'm afraid. I learned that early on. Best you do too."

Jaime winced at the memory of Tyrion's first wife, Tysha, a pretty little thing that no doubt at least_ liked_ Tyrion. A pang of guilt stung at his stomach but he drowned it with wine. A lot of wine. "I should go. We're setting off early tomorrow."

Tyrion regarded his words thoughtfully, thinking gods knew what, and nodded. "Goodnight, brother."

"Goodnight, brother." He replied, already past the threshold of the tent.

He was tired, drunk, and the feel of his warm bed furs under his body was the most inviting thought he'd had all day- and yet, Lyla still swam through his mind. "I'll make it up to her somehow." Grumbled Jaime as he shoved into his tent and flopped onto the cot unceremoniously, sleep taking him before he could even take off his boots, dreams of a certain wolf girl bubbling in his mind.

_*Alrighty, so I know what you're thinking- Why does it have to go so bad so quick into the venture south? And the answer to that will be in Chapter 12, along with what Jaime does to make it up to our lovely wolf girl. I know, I know, you all hate when lovers quarrel, I do too! But sometimes it has to happen. This is one of those times._  
_Admittedly, this chapter doesn't feel very strong to me, and is more of a filler-esque installment, one of those ones that builds up to later on events, and I'm not sure how well I did at keeping everyone in character (the children are a slight exception because I love to see them blossom). Overall I'm not terribly confident with this update, but after three re-writes this is the best of them all, and I'd hate to keep you all waiting for any longer._  
_I'll try and keep the updates coming weekly if not sooner, but bear with me, as I'm starting a new semester and we're getting in order to eventually move (probably some time in March...)_  
_Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this tid bit of drama, and I hope to hear from you all, my dear readers, with a couple reviews or follows or favorites (or all three, hehe.) Hope you all have a glorious day! :)_


	11. Chapter 11

Dense, dark mist hung eerily in the air the morning of the second week of their journey. It set a solemn, nearly sad mood that matched the way Lyla Stark felt _exactly_. Her arm was throbbing, she had a headache from Sansa and Arya fighting, and Jaime was constantly apologizing to her, through means of gifts or otherwise.

It had been over a week since Jaime had crushed his lips against hers and pulled her in so tight that the stitches holding her arm together had broken open. The pain was worse then than it had been when Robb had originally sliced her, for the skin had begun to heal over the wound. It was burning, stutteringly hot as her arm-for the second time in under a moon- was torn open.

"What in the _hells_, Lannister!" Lyla had hissed, glaring at the golden haired man that was to be her husband, unable to stop the tears that dribbled from the corners of her eyes.

Jaime had looked near mortified as he stared at her, eyes darting from her face to her arm and back again. "I'm so sorry, I was just-"

"Being _stupid_! Gods, you're such an _ass_!" She swiped at his shoulder in her anger and pain, attempting to wipe away her tears with the back of her free hand and shaking free from Jaime's grasp before running to where Carinya was looking for her.

As her new maid, appointed to her by Jaime and who she was indifferent to, took her over to the outside of her tent and came back out with boiling hot wine and new threads, she clenched her jaw shut. It wasn't until the sandy-haired girl was finished re-stitching that Lyla released a long, shaking breath. The sling was rewrapped, looser by Lyla's command, and she quickly made her way to Jon, Rose padding beside her as always.

She'd spoken with Jon all night about her reservations about King's Landing and Sansa's betrothal among other things, and as they conversed, Lyla felt her anger slipping away. She knew she'd overreacted, but he _had_ technically ripped her arm back open. But now, over a week since then, Jon was leaving, and Lyla had never felt worse.

"Aunt Lyla?" A pitchy sweet voice coaxed her from her mind and she looked down, sighing lightly.

"I thought I told you, sweet golden girl, I'm not yet your aunt."

Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon had been following Lyla around camp since the morning of the second day of the travel south, and while the Queen seemed to disapprove of her son and daughter's choice of companion and the princess and little Tommen endlessly talked and talked, Lyla found herself enjoying their company more than she anticipated.

Blushing, the princess nodded. Myrcella always blushed- it only added to her beauty though. While her father was a stag, the little royal was all Lannister, with flowing curls of gold and piercingly green eyes that always smiled with her plump, shell-pink lips. "I'm sorry, I'm just so excited… Oh please say you'll marry my Uncle Jaime right when you get home! I want to be able to call you my family!"

Lyla smiled and ran her fingers through Rose's pelt, who pawed at the ground beside her. "You will one day. It could be years from now though, you know."

"I don't want to wait years though, Lady Lyla." Myrcella frowned and sighed. Tommen ran up behind his sister, pudgy cheeks wind-nipped with as much pink as his nose and fingertips.

After a moments thought, she bit her lip and exhaled. "I guess you can call me your Aunt until then if you want…"

"Oh can we?" Tommen beamed almost as brightly as his sister and they both hugged her skirts before giggling and skipping off to their litter, claiming they'd be back later.

Lyla savored the spare moment she had alone, sucking air in between her teeth. She'd hardly had a moment to herself in the past two weeks, and she relished in it, smoothing down her Tully blue skirts and tugging the Stark grey ribbon from her hair, shaking it free of its far-too-tight braid. Slowly, she made her way to where her stallion Morrow was, in all his blue roan and silky black maned glory, grazing along side Jon and Uncle Benjen's horses.

"Hey boy." She murmured, noting that he was already tacked up and ready to be ridden. "How did you sleep, my dear?"

"Quite well, actually, though I don't believe I'm the brother you should call _dear_."

Lyla turned quickly, brows rising. Her eyes were met with the scene of the camp being packed up until she looked down to the noise of someone clearing their throat. "Oh, my lord." There Tyrion stood, clean as a whistle and grinning something wild. "I didn't know you were here."

Tyrion raised a brow too, nodding. "Apparently so. How is your arm, my lady Stark?"

"It's well. Thank you." In truth, that morning it was drumming in pain worse than the others. "Are you excited to be visiting the Wall, Lord Lannister?" Tyrion would be riding off with Jon, Lyla was told, to take a gander at the view and piss off the edge. In all honesty, Lyla was highly curious what would happen if one pissed off the edge of the Wall.

The green in his eyes twinkled as the sun shot through a patch of storm grey clouds and began breaking them up throughout the sky, fog slowly fading. "I am most excited, yes. And, considering the circumstances, I think just Tyrion is fine."

"Of course." Lyla rubbed Morrow's neck as he turned around and nudged her, wincing slightly when his muzzle graced her sling. If Tyrion noticed, and there was no doubt he had, he didn't show it.

"Listen," Tyrion began, grabbing Lyla's attention as she looked back to him. "I know that my brother is a fool, a bloody cocky one at that, but he would never mean you harm. He didn't mean to hurt you, Lyla."

She nodded. "I know."

"And even though he's an ass, he'll try if you give him the chance."

"I know."

"I understand we didn't start off on the right foot, but I want you to know that I'll try, too. Try and be a good brother, I suppose, though I'd much rather be the funny one- and yes, you know that too, don't you?"

Tyrion was smirking and Lyla laughed for the first time that day, stress of losing her brother fading. "He sent me a rabbit that his guards caught for him. What would I ever do with a rabbit?"

"What did you do with it?"

"I had Carinya find a cage for it, make it at home."

Tyrion huffed. "We were expecting you to shoo it away or kill it. Eat it even, if you were sadistic enough."

Lyla raised a brow. "Maybe I'm not what anyone's expecting then."

He smiled. "Of course you're not."

"You said we, before. You said_ we_ were expecting?"

"Jaime and I." Tyrion ran a stubby-fingered hand over Morrow's long muzzle fondly as the horse bowed his head to sniff him. "He consults me with everything. You know, you can too. I'm not so bitter as my sister. I won't bite."

Lyla couldn't help but frown. "I don't blame her for being that way." The Queen had been put through so much it seemed- refused a betrothal to Rhaegar, forced to marry the new King who slew the one she loved, and had a sniveling shit of a cousin among other things. Lyla shivered at the thought of Lancel. _Bastard_, she thought coldly.

Tyrion only looked at her, regarding the changes in her expression with calm, green eyes. Jaime's calm, green eyes. She suddenly realized she hadn't seen his face in over a week- not since the night he'd vengancely kissed her.

Lyla's hand twitched to reach up and touch her lips, but she shook the thoughts away as a cold gust of wind danced through her rusty brown ringlets. "Do you know where Jaime is?"

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak but the King's voice boomed instead. "_We're riding out, come on damnit!_"

"I'm afraid the time for talk is over now, dear Lyla. I bid you goodbye, for now. We'll see each other once it's time for _real_ goodbyes, I'm sure." He looked apologetic almost, giving her a smile, patting her hand, and leaving as she called her farewell. For now.

Lyla was about to bid for Carinya to help her mount, but a pair of hands were already on her waist, lifting her into Morrow's old leather saddle. "I'll have a new saddle made once we reach King's Landing." Came a familiar voice. One she didn't realize she missed.

"I've had this saddle since I was ten years of age, I'm not giving it up until it breaks." She smiled as a pair of dark gold brows furrowed and lighter gold curls swayed in the breeze, green eyes soft.

"Lyla, I know I've been… neglecting you… but I _am_ sorry. If you're still mad, I understand, I just want to know what I can do to make it okay again." He looked down at her arm and frowned heavily. "I really never meant to do that. I'm sorry…"

If she weren't already over being angry, the pure and frontal concern for her that glimmered in his Lannister green eyes would have done it. That, or the fact that he, the Kingslayer, the Lannister Lion, the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms- _or so they say…_- was practically on his knees apologizing. She hushed him, two fingers pressed softly to his lips. "Jaime, I'm fine, and its okay. Stop worrying about me."

He kissed her fingers quickly before she retreated them to the reins, fixing her boots into the stirrups. "I can't just _stop worrying_. You're to be my wife, and I never want to hurt you." Jaime sighed, running his fingers through his hair as King Robert called him by his "petname". The way he flinched at the sound of it wasn't missed by Lyla's Tully blue eyes, brown curls blurring her vision for a moment before she tucked the strands behind her ear. "I have to go. I'll talk to you as soon as I can, yes?"

She nodded and watched him go, sighing, wondering if one day she would have the power over him that her mother had over her father. _Catelyn_. The name sounded funny, even just in her thoughts, and she wrinkled her nose. Her mother, while every bit beautiful and more or less goodly, was never so cold to her as she was when the Royal Family came to Winterfell. Lyla silently questioned if it was simply a coincidence, or if the gods had shoved her from her childhood into the arms of Jaime Lannister _on purpose_. _No matter_, she thought fluidly as the party began to move. She would have plenty of time to think about it after she'd said goodbye to Jon.

* * *

The horses pranced frothily along the King's Road, and Lyla was dreadfully thankful that the youg prince and princess, Tommen and Myrcella, had chosen to stay inside the litter that day. She wanted as much time with Jon as she could get.

"Do you remember when Arya was born?" Lyla asked, looking over to him, blue eyes meeting grey.

Jon nodded, smiling tightly at the memory. "Lady Stark was in such a worry that you wouldn't be there, since you weren't due back from Highgarden for another week when her water broke." His horse whinnied and stomped at the ground for a moment before continuing, and Jon, as patient as ever, waited until the horse had finished with its tromp to kick into its sides. "And you came charging through the gates of Winterfell right when Arya came charging into the world. Almost like magic."

Lyla snorted a laugh and smirked. "And I demanded to hold her first. Not even after mother." She sighed then, eyes downcast. "If mother hadn't sent me away, I could have been there when the water broke… I don't know why she was so set on me leaving as a girl."

"I don't know how she could bare to part with you. I know I couldn't when we were young. Still don't know if I can."

Jon looked so sincerely sad then that Lyla wanted to curse her sling and hold him, but as her arm throbbed and throbbed, she was reminded to do otherwise. Instead, she settled for smiling and drawing Morrow closer to his steed. "You can still say no, Jon. I can convince father into letting you come with us to King's Landing, or maybe back to Winterfell."

He shook his head. "Neither of those places are meant for me. I'd never make it in that rat's nest of a capitol, and Winterfell still beholds the Lady Stark. Lyla, the Wall is the only place for me."

"What about the wolf pack? The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Jon, you'll be a lone wolf." Lyla frowned and sighed, eyes on his. "Jon, you're my brother. I only wish you could see it that way."

Jon's thick brows knitted together. "Lyla, I see myself as your brother as much as Robb, Bran, Rickon, and even Theon do. I'm not doing this to hurt you. That's the last thing I want to do. I just need to find myself."

"I'll never understand why." Lyla muttered, and he rubbed her back in soft, slow circles. While all Lyla wanted to do was hear Theon's calming laugh, this gesture of brotherly affection was enough to still her worries. "I'm scared I'll never see you again," She confessed quietly, looking up at him with nervous Tully eyes. "I have this.. feeling.. that I won't."

"Don't talk that way." He murmured darkly. "I'll never let that happen. You're my sister, and I'll come see you as often as I can. You know that."

Lyla nodded, leaning into the hand that still rubbed her back. "I know. I'm jus-"

The sound of horses riding heavily towards them made Lyla stop mid-sentence and both she and Jon turned in their saddles. Uncle Benjen and their father, Eddard Stark, galloped towards them, grim expressions matching solemn grey eyes.

"We've come to the crossroad. It's time for us to say our goodbyes." Eddard told them, nodding his head over to the road that lay just in front of them.

Lyla's one-handed grip on Morrow's reins tightened until her knuckles paled to white. "So soon?" She'd been expecting them to find the road near nightfall, not morning. She wasn't ready for parting with Jon in the morning.

Jon removed his hand from her back and sighed, looking up at her through his hair. "It'll be okay. Don't worry."

Uncle Benjen gave his niece a smile. "I'll take care of him, you know that."

"Can I have a moment alone with Jon, Uncle? Father?"

They two older men looked down at Lyla from their stallions, understanding eyes warming her flesh. "Of course." Benjen said as Eddard hummed a, "Yes."

Lyla swung her leg over Morrow's side until she was side-saddle and slipped from his back, Jon doing the same. They stood in front of their horses just looking at each other for a moment- memorizing every piece of each other. This would be the last time they saw each other face to face for a very long time.

Wordlessly, Jon pulled Lyla into a hug and held her close. The pain in her arm wasn't even a concern as she reached her left arm over his right shoulder and hugged him to her. She remembered his scent; horses and wind and _home_.

Jon was her best friend, her brother, the most Stark of any of them. He was her rock, the one she talked to about her problems, the one she cared enough for to defy her own mother. Jon was her best friend, her brother, and it was time for him to leave her.

"I love you, Jon." Lyla choked out through silvery tears she didn't know were coming out. "I'm going to miss you so much."

Jon sniffed into her hair as if to stop himself from crying. Not in front of everyone else. "I'm going to miss you too." He murmured, kissing the crown of her head as he pulled away from her, grey eyes watered and diluted with sadness.

"Have you said your goodbyes to the girls?" She asked, biting her lip.

He nodded. "As soon as they woke up. Arya's upset. You should go to her soon."

It was Lyla's turn to nod, then. "I'll see her tonight. Father's called us to have a family dinner."

Jon sighed. "I should go. They'll be waiting." He neared her and made to lift her up, but stopped when she shook her head.

"Not yet." Lyla whispered, then folded down her skirts before she began to move across from Jon- who was one step behind her for a moment- and to the signs that marked the crossroad. To where Tyrion stood, smiling.

"My lady, it pains me to leave you." He smirked, bowing slightly.

Lyla smiled and winked, curtsying. "I am sad to see you go. I was just becoming fond of your company."

They both laughed at that, a much needed laugh, and then Tyrion's expression softened even further. "Lyla," He whispered to her in a hushed tone. "Please remember to give Jaime another chance. He didn't mean t-"

She raised a hand and smiled. "No need to worry, I'm not upset." He nodded, glancing at her arm quickly before the smile reappeared.

"The next time I see you, I hope you're my sister. I'd so love to have one." Lyla's mind flipped to Cersei, but remembered the way Her Grace called Tyrion a monster.

Shoving her thoughts away, Lyla felt her lips tugging upwards. "I look forward to your return."

"As do I, my lady." Tyrion gave her a short nod, patting her hand before turning to mount his jet black pony. Jon advanced to her once she began walking back, and finally got the leave to lift her to Morrow's saddle.

"Goodbye, Jon." She whispered, suddenly sad now that she was eye to eye with her brother- probably for the last time in years.

He shook his head, near-black curls bouncing. "Not goodbye. Not forever. I'll see you soon, sister."

She bobbed her head, nodding softly. "I'll see you soon, brother."

* * *

The ride back from leaving Jon was one of the hardest things Lyla had ever had to endure in her life. There was a deep, burning sensation that made her feel hollow. Her brother, her Stark colored brother with the gentlest temperament imaginable._ Her_ _brother_. He was gone now, to take the black and live at the Wall. He wouldn't see her wedding, wouldn't meet her children probably until they were grown. _Oh Jon_.

Tears graced her wind-pinkened cheeks, her mood as blue as her Tully eyes. She hardly had the heart to notice the beauty of the scene around her- the way the snowcapped mountains seemed to balance the sun on their tips, how the wildflowers bloomed all around them for the last time, how the birds chirped and sang their pretty songs.

_Jon loved to hear the birds sing_, Lyla thought solemnly. _It calmed him_. Eddard seemed unfazed, galloping a stride ahead of her, breathing almost as heavily as his snowy draft horse.

Rose came yipping- loose from the lead that Carinya held her on when she wasn't with Lyla, barking and whining happily with her long, fluffy brown tail swinging from side to side. "Shhh." Lyla murmured to the wolf as Morrow slowed and eventually stopped, yards away from where her father stopped by the King it seemed.

"Carinya, please take Rose." She muttered to the sandy-haired maid that came running to Morrow's recue, grabbing the lead and tugging on it gently.

"Come on, Rose, come on." Carinya murmured, eventually coaxing the wolf into sitting at her side. "My lady." The girl, who wasn't really a_ girl_ and was probably a few years older than Lyla, bowed and made to leave, Rose padding at her side.

It was at the Queen's insistence that Lyla not be able to ride with Rose along side her- "It's unsafe! The smelly beast will be trampled or eat a horse." Cersei complained, brows knitting together darkly. That was the first time she'd ever felt anything but pity for the Queen, and knew it wouldn't be the last.

Lyla sighed, rubbing Morrow's withers and leaning down further to his neck. It would be so hard without Jon, she thought. It would be hard to be without a stable brother, with one unconscious, one a new Lord, and the last being only four. Her eyes followed to where Arya was being chased after by Tommen- who was holding a thick-furred black and white kitten- and then to where Sansa was giggling with the Prince Joffrey, his scarred Hound faithfully at his side. They were the last family she would see for a very long time, aside from her father, who sat dutifully at his King's side, horses nearly bumping.

Then her eyes ventured to the other side of Robert Baratheon, clad in yellow and black, to where a pair of luminous green eyes were already on her. _Jaime_, a voice in her head hummed. Soon, Jaime would be her family too, and she wouldn't be so alone. When Tyrion returned, she'd have another brother to jest with and share with. _Mayhaps it won't be so bad,_ Lyla found herself pondering, _If I end up surrounded by Lions rather Wolves_.

Jaime smiled to her and then resumed riding, nodding to something the King bellowed and smirking challengingly to another guard. While her golden haired husband-to-be was no Jon or Theon, he had a certain quality about his smile, about him in general, that made Lyla feel as though she were wrapped in her baby blanket or in strong arms- his strong arms, perhaps. She didn't know, nor care, as she took full solace in his glancing eyes and quick just-for-her smiles. She might not have Jon anymore, but something told Lyla that Jaime would make an acceptable substitute, as she watched him wink to the Princess Myrcella, who poked her sunny curl-covered head out of the slow paced litter. Not a perfect substitute, no, but it was a start.

_*I'll write an AN when I'm not so ridiculously tired (when I wake up tomorrow)... Enjoy! R&R please :)_  
_Have a beautiful morning!_


	12. Chapter 12

"Lift your sword arm higher."

"Like this?"

"Perfect. Now, keep your shield arm closer."

"This way?"

"Exactly." Mycah took a jab at Arya, a grin gracing his lips.

They'd been out in the woods since morning, when the King announced that the Queen Cersei was too exhausted to travel that day. Arya and Mycah were slicing and jabbing and smacking at each other repeatedly, taking no breaks and sparing no time. The butcher's boy looked worn, panting and out of breath, but was smiling none the less as Arya lunged at him again and again. Lyla, as always, spectated. She gave tips, watching intently on a near by log, Rose and Nymeria laying on either side of her, watching with an equal amount of curiosity.

It was uncomfortably warm, sun covering the whole world, it seemed, with a dusty haze of light as gold as Lannister curls. Gentle white clouds bubbled in the eastern sky and a light gust of wind swept through the trees every so often, cooling them as it passed, tugging at their hair and whisping at the direwolves' fur. The day was calm, quiet even, aside from the sounds of smacking wood.

After Jon left for the Wall, Lyla had been spending a lot more time with her younger sister, who, now they were dreadfully close to King's Landing, was able to ride with her, on a small mouse-grey pony. Maybe it was because Arya looked so much like their brother, or maybe it was because her sister acted so much like herself as a girl- or simply because she was lonely.

Since her brother had gone with their Uncle Benjen, Lyla had felt isolated. Jaime was constantly doing things for the King, and the royal children, Myrcella and Tommen, had taken to riding in the litter more often- due to Cersei's influence or not, she did not know.

"Mycah, try harder!" Arya whined, her high voice dragging Lyla out of her thoughts and pulling her in to reality.

The red haired butcher's boy wrinkled his thick nose, chubby cheeks making his small, muddy green-brown eyes even smaller. "I _was_ trying, m'lady."

Arya grinned, grey eyes twinkling. "Well try harder."

The stance that the youngest Stark daughter held roughly reminded Lyla of Bran, the day she helped him practice in the training yard, so long ago it seemed. She felt a jerk of tears and looked towards the river to distract herself, watching as it slowly trickled behind the two younger ones, who, oblivious to her sudden offset of emotion, continued fighting.

The water looked crystal blue, sparkling as bright as Jaime's eyes when he'd kissed her for the first time. A voice in her head murmured his name, and she sighed. Lyla did not deny that she missed his company; his slightly mocking voice and barely-crooked smile. More than once she'd caught herself watching him as he walked about camp or rode with Robert, and more than once she'd have to distract herself from riding up to him, purely because she didn't know what to say or do.

As she focused on what surrounded her, Lyla heard mumbled words and her head snapped to where she saw a flash of Tully red ringlets and shiny golden hair. At first her mind switched to Jaime, but then she remembered that Sansa was engaged to a certain yellow-haired prince.

"My _princess_ can drink as much as she wants." Came the royal Prince Joffrey's sniveling voice. He was clad in ruby and gold with a sweeping black cloak to match his tall black boots, slightly heeled to make him appear taller. _Probably because Sansa is so tall_, she mused.

As Sansa stepped closer into view, Lyla raised a brow. Her sister was donned in a Tully blue gown, simply yet stunning as it brought out her eye color and made her hair look more like fire than any other dress could have done.

Her younger sister seemed no to register the words for a moment before she cautiously accepted the wine cask and took a sip. Lyla's left hand knuckles grew whiter by the second. That sniveling price was giving her eleven-year-young sister wine, looking at her as though she were a pet rather his betrothed, and smirking so devilishly with those piggy lips of his. It took all her strength not to snarl.

"I'll get you Mycah!" Arya cried as the red-head smiled brightly, baring yellowish teeth.

Sansa's head shot up, as well as Joffrey's, and she wrinkled her nose ugly-like, raising a brow. "Arya? Lyla?" She gasped, right as the youngest Stark daughter was smacked in the arm by her elder friend's stick.

"Ow!" Arya hissed, rubbing her arm for a moment before she looked back to Sansa. "What are _you_ doing here? Go away!"

Sansa glared, cheeks seeming to burn with embarrassment. "Your sisters?" The prince questioned, high-raised brows hooding over curious green eyes. Joffrey neared the two kids as Sansa stayed behind, watching with narrowed blue eyes. "Who are you?" He asked.

"Mycah, my lord." Came a meek reply, as the pudgy three-and-ten red-head dropped his sword arm and took step back.

"He's the _butcher's boy_." Said Sansa, either bored or mad, Lyla couldn't tell.

Arya's dark brown brows knit together. "He's my _friend_!"

The golden haired prince smiled annoyingly smug. "A butcher's boy who wants to be a knight?" Joffrey unsheathed a sword- a true steel sword- and pointed it at Mycah. "Well, pick up your sword butcher's boy, let me see how good you are."

"I think that's enough, my lord. He's only a boy. Children playing at swords." Lyla injected into the conversation, rising from her spot on the fallen log, Nymeria and Rose's back-fur on its end.

Joffrey sneered. "I'm your _Prince_, not your _Lord_. And I told him to pick up his sword."

Mycah shot her a look and bit his lip. "It's not a sword, my prince. It's only a stick." He shook the stick by his thigh and shrugged.

Joffrey was unrelenting, though, and shoved his steel at Mycah's cheek, poking at it. "And _you're_ not a _knight_. Only a butcher's boy." He shot a look to Arya and then narrowed his eyes to the red-head. "That was my lady's sister you were hitting. Do you know that?"

"Stop it!" Arya screamed with fiery eyes.

Sansa's glare intensified. "_Arya stay out of this_."

"Sansa, _you _stay out of this!" Lyla hissed, clenching her fist into balls over and over, frothing with anger as she jumped up, wolves at her side. She picked Mycah's stick from his hand and pointed it at the prince as he commented on how little he would hurt Mycah, piercing her friend's cheek with his steel.

Arya seemed not to care much for the need to not physically harm the prince as she swacked his back with her stick-sword. "Filthy little bitch!" Cried Joffrey as he cringed, falling to his knees. He swung at Arya but Lyla shoved her sister behind her, smacking the prince's sword arm.

"_Stop it, stop it both of you! You're spoiling it, you're spoiling everything!_" Sansa wailed, swinging her arms childishly, frowning.

Joffrey angrily screamed. "I'll gut you, you little cunt!" He spat, green eyes hot on Lyla's own blue. He was about to lunge upwards from the ground when Nymeria bounded from Lyla's side onto Joffrey- only to be ripped off of him by Rose,who then was carrying her wolf sister by the scruff, away from the prince.

Lyla moved to stand in front of the Prince, who cradled his right arm, holding it up like her own right arm was held in its sling. "You may be Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, but you are my sister's betrothed_ first_ and my other sister's soon-to-be brother. Should you ever, _ever_ speak to either of them as thus or raise a hand to them, I'll _not_ hesitate to act."

Arya picked up the prince's sword, which Lyla had knocked out of his grasp, and used the rest of her strength to swing it into the river that Lyla, only moments ago, had admired for its trickling clear beauty.

"Oh my sweet prince," Lyla heard her younger sister whisper to the fallen golden-haired ass, kneeling beside him, eyes thick with worry. "Are you terribly hurt?"

Lyla sighed, watching her sister. "Sansa," She waited until deeply annoyed Tully eyes shot up to continue. "Go for help for the prince, make sure all is fine and that Nymeria didn't bite him too hard."

Sansa nodded slowly, waiting to let the meaning of her words sink in before she stood. "Where are you going?" She asked as Lyla turned to where Arya had sprinted off to the moment after she'd thrown the sword.

"I'm going after Arya. _One_ of us has to have enough sense to."

* * *

"Arya it's for the best."

"I can't. I can't, Lyla."

"Arya, you have to."

Lyla watched as her sister stared watery-eyed at her direwolf- Nymeria- with a quivering lip and weak, shaking hands. "Lyla, she's a piece of me. She's _mine_. And I'm hers."

She ran fingers through her sister's thin brown curls. "The Queen will kill her, sweet sister." Lyla murmured, voice softer now. "If she runs off here, we can find her later. When we go back home."

"We'll never go home." Arya whispered darkly, dragging Nymeria into a tight, hard hug, nuzzling her nose into the depths of her wolf's fur and raking her fingers across her back. "I'm sorry." Lyla heard her sister hum into the wolf's ear, kissing its forehead.

Nymeria whimpered as her master pulled away.

"_Lady Arya! Lady Lyla_!" Deep voices called out. "_Come out, it's alright_!"

Lyla shook her head to keep her sister quiet. Arya nodded, then shoved at her wolf's shoulders, making it stumble back. Nymeria whined again and cocked her head, pawing at the ground.

"Go, girl." Arya muttered, almost a whisper. "They'll never forgive you. Not for what you did to Joffrey. Go, now!"

"Leave!" Lyla rushed, Arya tossing a rock at the wolf for incentive. Eventually the wolf backed up and turned, running a few feet before turning back and whining for one last time before sprinting away.

Arya immediately began to bawl, not bothering to keep quiet as Lyla heard the same deep voices shouting at one another, and then shouting their names. "_Lady_ _Arya, Lady Lyla_!"

Lyla began to cry too, then, holding her sister with her free hand, pulling her onto her lap. "Shhh." She murmured, kissing her sister's forehead through shaky sobs. Arya clung to her neck, crying heavily into her shoulder, and, not knowing any other thing to do, Lyla began humming.

She must have been humming for at least a few minutes before the Lannister men found them, Arya only sniffling now, Lyla having stopped the moment she started to hum the song of their childhood. One of the men tried to touch Arya, to help her up, but Lyla hissed and held her sister closer.

"Ser Jaime, we've found them!" She heard one call.

"They're over here, come on!"

"…Crying."

"Singing…"

Their voices meshed into one, and Lyla grinded her teeth to keep from screaming at them to _shut up_. Arya scrambled to her feet as a guard asked it of her, biting her lip until it turned white, as if to refrain from crying again, and Lyla wanted to punch every man that was talking, their deep bellows adding to her swirling headache as she felt tears streaming again. Until one voice downed the others out, that is.

"Lyla."

It only took that one word, her name being whispered, for Lyla to know it was Jaime, and she eagerly wrapped her left arm around him, sucking in a deep, much needed breath of his scent. She didn't know she'd missed him so much. "Jaime." She whimpered, then sighed as he straightened up, taking her with him.

He chuckled and kneeled slightly so her feet touched the ground, releasing her, but held her hand in his. Lyla watched as one of the guards tried to grab at Arya's arm and hissed. "Don't touch her!"

Arya looked to Lyla and ran to hug her skirts, burying her face there. Lyla looked up at Jaime and he pursed his lips. "Don't touch the Stark girls. They can ride with me."

"I don't want to ride with a filthy Lannister." Lyla heard Arya sneer under her breath, though knew Jaime couldn't have heard it, it was so quiet.

"Please, sweet sister. We need to see father."

Arya nodded and Jaime lifted her onto his saddle, Arya following and sitting on her lap. Jaime got on last and Lyla leaned into him slightly as his arms wrapped around her to reach the reins. His hold was comforting, and if Lyla was to face her father, she'd need all the comfort she could get.

* * *

Eddard came striding into the tent with a fury, grey eyes never looking more black. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Arya cried once she caught sight of their father, who kneeled to her side immediately, asking if she was hurt. "No." Arya replied, looking to Lyla for comfort.

Eddard turned to Lyla and cast a glance at her arm. "Are _you_ hurt?" She shook her head, which thundered worse than her arm ever had, and gave him a weak smile as he drew her and his youngest daughter into a warm hug.

"That's alright." Ned murmured to his daughters, kissing their foreheads. The fire in his eyes grew darker then. "What is the meaning of this? Why were my daughters not brought to me at once?"

The Queen Cersei snarled, baring her perfect chicklet teeth. "How dare you speak to your King in that manor."

"Quiet woman!" Robert bellowed, rolling his electric blue eyes, which were hooded under thick black brows. "Sorry Ned. I never meant to frighten the girls, but we need to get this business done quickly."

"Your girls and that butcher's boy attacked my son. Those animals of theirs nearly tore his arm off." Cersei glared at Lyla especially long, and all the pity she felt for the Queen dissipated.

Arya defiantly held her chin up. "That's not true! She just… bit him a little." She paused for a moment, her little face scrunching up.

"He was hurting Mycah." Lyla finished for her sister, who reached up and held her hand, nodding confirmation.

Cersei rolled her green eyes. "Joff told us what happened. You two and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolves on him."

"Yes! They all attacked me and she," Joffrey jabbed a finger in the air, pointing to Arya. "Threw my sword in the river!"

Robert sighed heavily and gobbled a few glubs of wine. "Enough! The girls tell me one thing and the boy tells another. Seven hells, what am I to make of this?" He shrugged his shoulders, rolling them out. "Ned, where's your other daughter?"

"In bed, asleep." Ned affirmed, Lyla narrowing her eyes at the Queen when she smiled deliciously.

"She's not. Sansa, come here darling."

The crowd parted and Lyla pulled Arya to the side as Sansa approached, looking to the ground before meeting eyes with the King and Queen.

"Now girl," Robert began. "Tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It's a great crime to lie to your King."

Lyla could feel the heat emanating from Sansa's cheeks as she bit her shell-pink lip. "I don't know." She muttered. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast. I didn't see."

"Liar!" Arya screamed immediately. "Liar, liar, liar, liar, liar!"

Lyla cursed her sling and ripped her right arm from its clutches to pull Arya off of where she'd jumped onto Sansa's back and ripped at her hair, screaming _liar!_

Cersei's lip raised in a slight sneer. "She's as wild as those animals of yours. I want her punished. I want them _both _punished."

Robert slammed his cup onto the table. "What would you have me do? Whip them through the streets? Damnit, children fight. It's over."

"Joffrey will carry those scars for the rest of his life!" Cersei protested, eyes narrow and full of hatred. They were directed on Lyla, who looked to where Jaime stood beside the King for reassurance.

Jaime shook his head slightly, as if to motion not to look at him, but to the King, who glared to his son. "You let that little girl disarm you?" He asked, looked to where Lyla was working on her sling, trying to pull it over her arm. "Ned!" He barked. "You see to it your girls are disciplined. I'll do the same with my son."

Ned nodded before sliding Lyla's arm into the sling as gently as he dared. Robert had begun walking away when the queen spoke again, making everyone cringe.

"What of the direwolves? What of the beasts that savaged your son?"

Robert sighed, heavily annoyed, and turned. "Damnit, I forgot about the damned wolf."

"We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace." Said one of the guards that had found Lyla and Arya.

"No? So be it."

"We have _one_ of them." Cersei murmured, smirking in disgusting excitement. "We have _two_ of the wolves."

Robert stared at his wife for a long time, and Lyla even longer before answering. "As you will."

Eddard shook his head in disbelief. "You can't mean it."

Robert shook his head, too. "A direwolf's not a pet. Get your girls dogs, they'll be happier for it."

Lyla just stared at Robert, gaping. Her eyes were watering and she forced her mouth to close, though her bottom lip quivered. "Your Grace, Your Grace please."

"He can't mean Lady, can he?" Sansa was on the verge of tears, looking to the King with eyes as equally pleading as Lyla's. "No, no not Lady! Lady didn't _bite_ anyone, she's _good_!"

"Lady wasn't there. She'd didn't do it!" Arya cried. "Rose didn't bite Joffrey either!"

Lyla clenched her fists, both of them, not giving a shit about the pain that surged through her right arm. "Your Grace, please listen to reason-"

"I enjoy you girl, but watch it. This isn't up for discussion any longer."

Cersei's smirk only grew as time went on. "Where is Ser Illyn?"

"No!" Lyla screamed, "No!" She neared the King and clenched her left fist over and over. "Your Grace, if it wasn't for my direwolf, your son's arm would be no more!"

Arya nodded viciously. "Rose pulled Nymeria off of Joffrey. I saw it. Sansa saw it!"

"It's true." Sansa muttered, looking down.

Joffrey's lip snarled but he said nothing.

"Your Grace." Came a light, airy voice that Lyla relaxed slightly to. "The wolf that bit the prince is gone, and the other saved him. The Lady Sansa's wolf had no part. Why kill the two that have done no harm?" Jaime rested a hand on her left shoulder, arm around her from where he stood on her right. She wasn't mad anymore. She wasn't hurt or upset or anything, as she leaned into his touch as much as the moment allowed. She realized in that moment, as he stood up for her, that he'd been so jealous that night, weeks ago, because he _cared_ for her- how much she didn't know- only that he did, and she was silly for being mad at it.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, quiet enough for only his ears.

Jaime only squeezed her shoulder tighter and smiled down at her before an eerie silence over took the tent, everyone waiting for the King's decision.

None of them were ready for his answer as he bellowed it, loud and clear, and none of them expected it, only quiet gasps and sighs.

_*I was so excited to write this chapter that I went ahead and stayed up til 2AM doing it- So I hope you at least like it! It was a little tougher to write the Nymeria scene when she left, but over all, I kind of actually like this chapter. Hope it's not a disappointment. Anyways-_  
_Yes, an awful, awful cliffhanger! Partly because I'm too tired to type the rest, and partly because I'm curious to whether or not I really want them to keep the direwolves or otherwise. Hm.. Let me know what you think about it in a review!_  
_So yeah, back to school in a few hours so I guess I should take a short cat nap... Hope to hear from you! I love and appreciate you all, dear readers and reviewers! Have a great week doves! :)_


	13. Chapter 13

"Look, Lyla." Jaime whispered into her ear, smiling and pointing before them. "King's Landing."

The Stark girl looked up from her hands, clearly having been lost deep in thought, and gave the view before her a weak smile, leaning back into his chest on the saddle and sighing. _The poor thing_, Jaime thought, frowning now. She was homesick, she was tired, and she was desperately hot. While the southern heat had been inviting and welcoming to the Lion of Lannister, to Lyla Stark, a daughter of the North, it had been sweltering and unwanted.

It had been a week since the incident on the Trident, a week since the King had ordered the death of the wolves, a week since Jaime saved them- even the little Arya's wolf, who he'd personally gone out in the Kingswood to find, hiding in the hollow of a fallen tree. While he had rescued the wolves from their fates, he couldn't rescue the boy- Mycah, a pudgy redhead with freckles and crooked yellow teeth- who was run over by Sandor Clegane's steed. Lyla'd tried to kill the Hound for it, silly little bride of his, tried to run at him with a steel sword, but Jaime had caught her before she made the mistake in thinking she could kill the man who was nearly thrice her size and had far over thrice her strength. In the end, after much discussion between Eddard, the King, Lyla, and Jaime, it was decided that her horse be tied to Jaime's saddle, and Lyla ride with him for the rest of the trip in fear that she try and go after Sandor again. She hadn't tried to disobey the command of keeping her distance from the Hound, though, and stayed at Jaime's side even when they weren't ridding.

In the end, Jaime didn't mind being at her side. She molded to him as they rode like pudding in a bowl and her hand in the crook of his elbow as they walked about camp together had felt nice- still, she seemed unhappy and was terribly distant, and Jaime couldn't blame her. If his brother had gone to the Wall forever, and not a few weeks, he would be on edge too, just as he would if he had to leave his home and family in King's Landing to live the rest of his days in the North or if Addam Marbrand, Jaime's childhood friend, had been run over by a horse; yet there was Lyla, having to endure all three of those things and more. _The poor, poor thing_.

"Jaime…" The voice sounded breathless and he looked down to Lyla, loosening his arms around her waist, not realizing just how tight his hold had gotten. She let out a long breath and quickly inhaled in a way that made Jaime want to laugh.

"Sorry," He murmured, feeling as she relaxed into him once again. He inhaled, the familiar rosewater scent of her tickling at his nose- it was never an assaulting amount of rosewater, rather, it was subtle and coy, like a maiden's blush. He wished he could see Lyla blush more, but even when she wasn't so upset she was tough to make blush.

The King spurred his heavy black warhorse around and cleared his throat then, cracking his knuckles all at once by interlacing his fingers and pushing them from him. "Welcome to the bloody rat's hole!" He hollered, winking to Lyla who, for the first time in almost a week it seemed, laughed. The delicious trills of her quiet giggles bubbled in his ears and he got a slap of realization that he would do a terrible many things to hear that laugh more often.

Lyla kicked into the sides of his horse and flicked the reins, for Jaime had figured she'd be more comfortable if she were in control as she had been when she were on her blue-roan stallion, Morrow, and they began moving quicker.

He leaned in closer to her, "The city isn't so bad," He told her, smirking at how her breathing hitched at the feel of his breath on her ear. "Some nights it gets as cold as the North, and it'll be winter soon, wild wolf of mine."

"Wild wolf of _yours_? I dare say, you're making a claim on me, Jaime Lannister." Lyla whispered back, and he relished in the sound of her voice, how he could hear her slight smile. Maybe being off the saddle and back in a real bed with her wolf at her side, rather Rose being leashed and caged with the other two direwolves, would bring her back- the idea of it certainly was making her less dreary.

Jaime smiled into her hair, burying his face there for a moment before looking back up to the city. "It's only fair, you _are_ to be my wife soon after all."

She snorted- very unladylike but terribly Lyla-like – "I'm sure half the capitol will think we already are married, me riding with you and all… I don't see why I still have to, I'm perfectly-"

"I hope you weren't going to say perfectly fine to ride alone, because while I trust you," Jaime held her just the smidgest bit closer, "It's the Hound I don't trust. He might have taken offense to your attempt on his life, and if you were left unguarded…" He was jesting slightly, but she wasn't.

"Jaime, he killed Mycah." She hissed, and he craned his neck to see her scowl. When Cersei scowled, she was damndably beautiful, but when Lyla scowled Jaime's knees felt weak. Her Tully blue eyes were focused on her hands once again, a flash of guilt plaguing them as her fingers flexed around the reins. "I could have saved him if I'd brought him with me when I went after Arya. It's my fault. It's my fault Mycah died. I could have gone after him, I could have-"

Jaime shook his head and sighed, "Lyla please. There was nothing anyone could have done, save the Hound- but he'll see that boys face every night. He probably feels worse than you."

Lyla's eyes narrowed in disbelief but she shrugged and suddenly they were at the King's Gate. It was a magnificent gate really, all gold wrought in intricate designs and standing taller than The Mountain himself- almost as tall as five Mountains, with hinges the size of wrist guards and three guards on either half of it. "Open the Gates!" Screamed Robert, obviously anxious to get back to his bed in King's Landing, fucking his whores and fathering more bastards.

The gates croaked like dying frogs as they were pushed open, their weight making the hinges cry. Jaime's horse hesitated, whinnying before nervously trotting through the gates after much coaxing and murmurs on Lyla's behalf.

"Welcome home." Jaime hummed to her, but she didn't seem very happy. Of course she wouldn't be happy though; Winterfell was her home, not King's Landing. Not the South. She was of Northern blood and she would never think of the South as _home_.

Lyla simply bobbed her head once and looked on to the Queen's wheelhouse- the beautiful and obscenely ornate carriage of gilded metal and gold and red paints with cushions and forty draft horses- where her sisters, Arya and Sansa, slipped out and stretched their arms and legs, rolling their necks. They'd been confined there for nearly the whole month's ride, and though Arya was allowed out for a while to ride with Lyla, her privileges were provoked with her elder sister's.

Jaime slid from the saddle as best he could without hitting her with his leg and held his arms out for Lyla, who wrapped herself around him as he lifted her from her seat on the horse, holding her arms around his neck for a moment before touching her feet to the ground and stepping away, staggering slightly. He went to grab her arm but she held herself steady by using the horse for support. "Sturdy old thing," She murmured to it, slightly musing, patting its withers. She'd been in the saddle a month, surely she'd be tired, especially since they'd stopped only thrice in the past week of traveling, and he wondered if she would be able to walk to the Tower of the Hand on her own.

"Lyla!" Came two voices meshed into one, and a flash of fiery and chestnut colored curls ran by in a blur, the two young Stark girls leaping onto their sister, who held them close with her two arms.

She'd taken her cast and sling off the night after Jaime had found Nymeria at the Maester's insistence, though he noticed it still pained her to use her right arm. "Go see to our wolves. I'll be along soon." She kissed their cheeks, blue eyes meeting her youngest sister's grey with understanding before rising from her slight crouch and turning back to Jaime as the girls ran off, Arya wildly and Sansa with as much dignity as she could muster up. "Thank you," She said softly, looking down. "For everything I guess. I'll see you late-"

Jaime had been enraptured by her beauty as she stood before him- long brown curls cascading down her shoulders and southern styled dress of yellow with pink embroidery looking brilliant against her big blue eyes- and he leaned in to kiss her. On the cheek, of course, for she would surely run otherwise, and gave her a smile rather a smirk. "Dine with my family tonight." He asked, still leaned in close.

Lyla's brows knit together when he'd kissed her cheek and he felt her breath warm on his neck, making him shudder. "I'm having dinner with_ my_ family." She whispered, blinking with wide eyes that were both full of curiosity and shock. "I have to go."

"Don't." Jaime slid his finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. Oh how tempting her shell-pink lips were… "Let me show you around the Keep tomorrow."

She rolled her eyes as if he'd jested and even smiled a little. "Not tomorrow. I firmly intend on resting until I'm sick of my bed. I'll send Carinya when I'm ready to leave my chambers."

He watched as she left and wrapped Rose, her summer-brown direwolf, into a warm, tight embrace, murmuring to her and kissing her cheeks repeatedly. The two looked into each other's eyes for a moment and Jaime could feel the connection between them, as if it pulsed around him and tickled his skin. The same connection radiated between the other Stark daughters and their wolves, and the Lannister watched in fascination for a few seconds before unlatching Lyla's horse's reins from his horse's saddle and handing both sets of leads to a nearby stable hand before making his way to the castle, wondering if anything had changed.

* * *

The castle was a bustle, busy and buzzing and blisteringly hot. "Gods, don't they have wind in the South?" Lyla muttered, fanning her face with her hand as her sisters did and a few of the northern maids and guards, who unloaded their trunks and boxes into their three separate rooms. Maybe it was the actual South that was what burned through Lyla, or maybe it was her encounter with Jaime earlier.

She'd been taken off guard by his recent affections with her, confused and curious as to why he'd been taking to her so in the past week since he'd saved her and her sister's wolves- not that she minded really. He might have been calloused and a tad rough at times, but his touch was the same as Theon's laugh; utterly and impeccably comforting, the only kind of comfort Lyla wanted.

In the past week she'd been so reclusive and closed in- she was growing sick of herself, deciding to, over all, let it go. Jaime was right in saying it was the Hound's fault Mycah died, rather hers, but she knew the monster felt no guilt, The bastard _smirked_ when she tried to run the bloody sword through his back as Jaime had done to King Aerys Targaryen years ago. Virtually the only thing that she had found solace in for the last week was Rose, but the Queen wouldn't rest until the King, regrettably, leashed and caged the wolves until they'd reached the capitol. Well, Rose _and_ Jaime anyways. But when Jaime had called this rat's nest of a city _home_? She almost cried at that, but she was a Stark. Winter was coming, not her tears.

After she'd left him to go to Rose and her sisters, she'd been whisked away to the Tower of the Hand by Septa Mordane and Carinya, her father having been taken to a Small Council meeting right as he entered the city, only after promising he'd make it to dinner.

"Lyla, these are your chambers. Arya and Sansa, yours are across the hall and down the hall; Jeya and Nitha take the girls to their rooms." Carinya was in her element in the castle, commanding and leading as though she were the head of the staff in the Keep.

"Have you been a handmaid long?" Lyla asked her as the two entered her room. "Oh." She whispered, blinking. The floors were stone and grey, the four-post feather bed covered in blankets and pillows of white and grey and black, tapestries with her House sigil on either side of the bed and rugs of wolf and bear pelts alike covering the ground and bed. The brazier wasn't lit, thank the heavens, and all the windows were open, window shades of light grey silk covering the sunlight ever so slightly, making it more of a silver-tinted film around the room instead of a harsh light.

Rose hopped onto the bed and Lyla followed, giggling giddily at the feel of a real bed under her back. "Oh." She whispered again, though it was more of a moan.

"I've not." Replied Carinya to her previous question with laughter staining her voice. "Your trunks have been unpacked and there won't be need of you or the girls for hours- shall I come back and wake you then?"

The thought was luxurious, and Lyla was so desperate to accept that she almost sent the maid away right then, but she felt dirty and sore, and her arm needed rewrapped, so instead she sighed and asked for bathing water and some of the topical that Maester Frenken had given her on the ride on the King's Road.

"Yes, m'lady." Carinya curtsied and promptly left, Lyla having a few moments to herself. She sighed. The trip was perilous and tough, and she'd never ridden for so long aback a horse- not even to Highgarden, which was a two weeks ride rather four because of the pace she'd set- and as she relaxed into the pelts that covered the feather bed, she felt her eyelids grow heavy and rolled onto her side, waiting.

In her time alone, she couldn't help but think of what Jaime was doing right then and there. She still hadn't properly thanked him for saving the lives of Rose, Lady and even Nymeria, which had meant more to her than anything. Honestly, Lyla had no idea what to say, how to show how much she appreciated what he'd done, and figured she'd never make it even between them now; she was almost positive there was nothing he could ever have that would even come close to the bond she shared with her wolf. "You can go to sleep, silly wolf." She murmured to Rose, who looked to be fighting to keep her chocolate brown eyes open. Almost immediately, the wolf pounced over her to the other side of the bed and panted excitedly, wagging her tail as she rolled around on the pillows like they were the more velvety grass she'd ever felt. "Silly, silly wolf." Lyla laughed and patted Rose's flank just as a pair of girls- Jeya and Nitha- came in, one with arms full of topical treatments and thin ribbons to rewrap her arm, and the other with two buckets- one in each hand- with steam dancing above them. It had been too long since she'd had a proper bath.

"This way, m'lady." Said the taller, thinner one who had spidery long black lashes rimming her familiar blue eyes, long black hair wrapped and braided into the southern style. _Jeya_. The other, who looked nearly identical only shorter and slightly thicker, followed them into the bathroom and placed the ribbons and creams on the nearest table. _Nitha_.

They filled the tub- a grand thing of marble that was installed into the wall with tiles of white all around and fluffy towels and robes dotting each table- and scented it with the rosewater perfumes Lyla had brought from Winterfell, preparing the soap for her body and hair.

If the feeling of the feather bed was luxurious, the feeling of the steaming scented bath water was godssent as Lyla lowered her naked self into the tub, feeling it seep into every cell of her skin, moaning in relief. Surely no nap could feel as good as slipping into that water after a month's long ride. She hummed unconsciously as Jeya and Nitha- obviously bastards of the King- began scrubbing her pink and lathering her hair, rinsing over and over, and cleaning her right arm, Nitha wrapping thin whispy ribbons over the nearly healed but still painful wound as Jeya beckoned her from the water and patted her dry with a thick, soft towel and cloaked her in an even softer robe. It felt nice to be waited on, but she got the urges to dress herself in the thin southron gown of dark grey and white lining or brush her own hair out, and it was hard to bite her tongue and let others deal with those things. She did, however, slip her boots on herself, though Jeya and Nitha both insisted she wear slippers for the comfort of her feet, but Lyla would feel more uncomfortable walking down the halls and sounding like a trotting horse than if she'd just worn her clean black boots.

Carinya came in and plaited her hair, Rose snoring loudly on the bed behind them before Lyla snapped her fingers and whistled for the wolf to follow her and the maid from the room- because before she knew it, it was time for supper.

_*I'm super sorry for the wait, I've been so busy with my classes and with life that I've just been at a loss for what to write, and I know this isn't exactly a good chapter- in fact, it's awful- but it's a filler and after re-writing it over five times, I think this is as good as my writer's blocked mind would give me. The next few chapters will be better, I promise. I may even update again this weekend or before then, just to really get how sorry I am across- both for the chapter length and quality. I really appreciate all the follows/favs/reviews- they've made me so excited- and it's such an honor to be writing for you guys and reading all the kind things you have to say. It really does make a bad day better._  
_Hope you're not too angry and don't pull pitchforks out at me... *hides*_


	14. Chapter 14

King's Landing was nothing like Winterfell, Lyla thought as she watched the sky melt from onyx to sapphire, the moon and sun dancing amidst the fading stars. King's Landing was hot and smelly and dirty, where Winterfell was cool and sweet and clean. Even then, with the light breeze that tickled at her cheeks and morning light only just beginning to spill like molten gold over the capitol, it was as hot as the warmest summer day she could remember in the North.

Yet, aside from the badgering heat and the stench of disease, the eldest Stark daughter found a beauty in the capitol unknown to Winterfell. There were fabrics of silk and velvet and even Myrish lace decorating the windows and walls and even the ladies, as they paraded about the Red Keep on the arms of their lords. They moved as though they were water, fluid and quick; like they'd been doing it their whole lives.

The knights were decked in gilded armor of all colors; gold, white, blue, red. She'd even seen Lord Renly Baratheon prancing around in his armor of green, laughing and jesting with another knight, Ser Barristan Selmy, adorned in his Kingsguard armor of gold with a flowing white cloak. The same set of armor that Jaime had worn the first time she'd set eyes on him

So much had changed regarding Lyla's feelings for Jaime since the day he arrived inWinterfell. At first she had been cautious yet kind, but as the weeks dragged on, their relationship changed to something that she'd never experienced before. It wasn't love that she felt for Jaime, at least not yet, but there was something growing between them that was undeniable.

A knock at the door ripped Lyla from her thoughts and she coughed in surprise, looking to where Rose jumped up and bared her teeth at the door. The knock sounded again. Who would be at her chambers so early? She pulled the robe fully over her, sliding her arms through it and pulling it closed. "Come in," She called.

A maid waltzed in, a highborn handmaid clearly, with long locks of ash-brown pulled up into a twisted, braided, wrapped _thing_ atop her head with two thin plaits that fell to the girl's shapeless waist, which was covered with a silken fabric of green with a tall belt of gilded gold, wrought in floral designs that matched her rose hairpin and necklace. The girl wasn't ugly; in fact, she was rather pretty. Her eyes were large and hazel, thin ashy brows above them with a long, slender nose and a prominent cupid's bow on her upper lip while the bottom was thin and rounded.

"Good morning, my lady." She curtsied and shot nervous looks to Rose, who stopped baring her teeth but held a cold stare. "I was told to come help you dress. The Queen has requested your presence during her morning meal."

Lyla's brows furrows and she took a step sideways, closing distance between her and her direwolf. She always felt safer by Rose. "Why does the Queen wish me to break my fast with her?" She asked, folding her arms cautiously.

Ever since the incident on the Trident, Cersei Baratheon had taken all measures to avoid the eldest Stark girl, sneering at her and keeping the prince and princess, Tommen and Myrcella, away from her at all costs. Surely this was a mistake. Surely the Queen hadn't requested Lyla- mayhaps Sansa or even Arya, but not Lyla.

"I don't know, my lady. Her Grace wouldn't say, and it's not my place to ask." The girl let herself in and closed the door, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "It's so cold in here, my lady. Surly you'd like the windows closed-"

"No," Lyla rushed out, shaking her head vigorously, russet curls swaying. "Leave the windows. It's warm. If you would like, I can give you one of my cloaks. But leave the windows, please."

The maid pursed her lips and nodded. "As you wish, my lady. And no, thank you. I'll be fine." She quickly looked over the Stark girl and _hmm'ed_, looking around the room until she found the closet, where she quickly flocked to, opening the doors and pensively regarding each gown before pulling out a long dark blue one of silks with sleeves shorter than Lyla was used to and a longer train than she would have thought comfortable.

Lyla raised a brow. "I'm to be dressed like a doll just because the Queen wants to see me?"

"All your other dresses are too thick, my lady." The maid whispered shyly, looking down at her folded hands. _Sansa would like this one_, Lyla thought. Sansa always liked girls with propriety.

The dress was a whisp of a gown really, but in the southern heat, Lyla could hardly even stand to wear the robe that she still held close to her. "Bring it here," Lyla said, resigned. If she was to be in the south, she would have to dress like it, or melt away in her northern gowns.

The girl who wasn't really must of a girl, probably being three or four years Lyla's senior, smiled widely, revealing a set of pearly chicklet teeth, a small gap between the front two. She quickly took to work on disrobing the Stark daughter, pulling the thin silken gown up over her hips, careful not to bunch up the smallclothes she wore, and laced the back with a silver ribbon from the top of the vanity in her room.

As the maid began brushing through Lyla's curls, the young Stark wondered where in the Seven Kingdoms her own handmaid was. Since Jaime had appointed Carinya to her, the maid hardly left her alone. "Where is _my_ handmaid?" She asked after the curiosity had finally eaten through her, not meaning to sound as rude as she probably did.

"Her Grace sent me personally, that's all I know." Said the maid, who stepped back and admired her work.

Lyla eyed at her reflection in the looking glass, shrugging. "I don't see why she would send her own handmaid… Is this serious?" She wondered if it would just be her and the Queen and immediately felt nervous, reaching for Rose and burying her fingers into the fur of her direwolf's back, sensing as the maid stepped even further back to allow the wolf to pad up to the side of Lyla's chair. Would Rose be okay? Did her father know about her meeting Cersei?

"My lady?" The young Stark's head snapped up and she noticed that the handmaid had moved to the door, gesturing. "It's time."

* * *

The walk to the Queen's solar was silent, for Rose had been left in Lyla's chamber with Jeya while Nitha went out to seek Carinya, and Lyla didn't have much to say to the handmaid. The girl had turned submissive once they'd left her chambers anyways, so conversation wasn't necessarily in the cards.

"Come in," Came a silken voice once the maid knocked on the door that led to Cersei's solar. The door was the twin to another; double oak doors two feet taller than Lyla _at least_ with shined brass knobs and ruby lions painted onto both sides. The maid opened the door and Lyla swallowed, stepping in with caution.

"Your Grace," She greeted, bowing her head but remaining standing, folding her hands in her lap. The Queen was adored in silks and wraps of gold and green with blue filigree and sapphires in her intricate gold crown, looking as beautiful and sparkly as the sun.

The Queen gave her an alluring smile and gestured to the seat beside her. "Come, sit little wolf. Would you like some eggs? Perhaps honeyed chicken? Wine?"

Lyla raised a brow. She'd not been expecting this. She'd not been expecting kindness. "No, thank you." In truth, she was rather hungry, but with the nerves that fluttered in her stomach like butterflies, she didn't think she could keep it down. The Queen could have brought her here to distract her while she had some sellsword or guard slaughter Rose in her chambers, or maybe to tell her that she was to be sent home. _Winterfell_, she thought wistfully, pursing her lips as she walked to where the Queen patted the chair beside her, sitting and looking around the room.

It was beautiful but hot; the furniture was polished and oiled and there were extravagant chairs with high backs and long legs, velvets of red and gold with tassels of black hanging from the cushions. There were lounging couches of onyx and ruby with swirls of sunshine stitched into them and a long stretched table that looked nearly as beautiful as the desk that was to the far left of the chamber. "What is all of this about?" She asked, feeling green eyes hot on her.

"Your wedding of course, little wolf!" Cersei pulled Lyla's hands into her own, and she had to fight with all her strength not to rip them back.

"What do you mean? Jaime and I are not to be wed for months… years… What's so important about it?" Lyla raised a brow and held her chin higher, feeling as russet brown curls trickled like water down her shoulders, which were nearly bare from the way the gown's sleeves were designed. "Has the engagement been called off?"

She began to frown, looking down and pulling her hands from Cersei's. Not being Jaime's wife meant her travel to King's Landing was for naught, and that their budding relationship was nothing anymore. But Cersei's voice brought her out of her mind, away from the thoughts that were darkening her mood.

"Quite the opposite, in fact." The Queen tossed her glittery golden hair over her shoulder and her smile tightened. "My father has petitioned the King to move your wedding date, little wolf- Something about wanting little lions around the Rock."

Lyla was taken aback. "How… How soon?" Though _not_ being his wife was a sad thought to her, _being_ his wife, at least so soon, was almost unthinkable still. They hardly knew each other and she was still young… "I'll still be able to… have children… in a few years."

Cersei shrugged, emerald eyes- Jaime's emerald eyes- growing duller. "I would have thought you would be delighted. Any woman in the Seven Kingdoms would _kill_ to marry my sweet brother. He's handsome and strong… Or do you not believe so, Lady Stark? Shall we marry him to a Tyrell instead?"

"No," She rushed, blue eyes wide. "I just… How soon is the wedding?" She knew not to expect kindness, so these harsh-meant words didn't phase her- well, perhaps in the slightest. Why would Tywin Lannister need heirs so soon? _To free Jaime from the Kingsguard quicker, no doubt_, she regarded, blinking slowly.

The Queen sipped wine from a gilded goblet encrusted with rubies and amethysts, sighing. "Father insists it be before the feast so we can celebrate it then. He's not so inclined to pay for two celebrations."

Ned had told Lyla of the feast Robert wanted to hold in his honor for accepting the position of being Hand of the King over their first dinner together, but from what he said she'd expected the idea to be thrown out. "So soon?" She mumbled under her breath, furrowing her brows. The feast was only a week away. _A week_, she thought, biting her lip. _And he wants it before the feast. That's only a matter of days…_

"Your Grace, I don't have a dress. And there's no way anyone could plan a whole wedding-"

"Ah, little wolf, you underestimate me." Cersei tilted her head to the side and smirked, but it looked misplaced. That was Jaime's smirk, not Cersei's, and she didn't wear it half as well as her brother. "Don't worry about anything. I'll take care of it all. A gift to my sister-to-be."

The sincerity of the Queen's words was mixed with underlying hints, though of what Lyla could not tell. Gods she needed to swing a sword, or shoot an arrow, or _something _to take her mind off of all of this. She wasn't made to be a lady, wasn't made to sit on her arse and do nothing while people worked all about her. Everything was hitting her so quickly, first with the Trident and now with her wedding only days away- it was becoming overwhelming. "I need to take a walk." She whispered, more to herself than to the Queen, who was mindlessly sipping on more wine. "Your Grace, if you would excuse me. I need air." The formality was bitter on her tongue but Cersei seemed not to notice.

"Not yet, little wolf. We've still business to discuss." The Queen smiled toothily then, chuckling to herself. What was so funny? "My father is coming down from Harrenhal for the wedding. He'll be here in two days time and you're to have dinner with us the night before your wedding. I'll send Irys to measure you- can't have the future Lady of Casterly Rock running around in furs and wool."

Lyla felt her brow arch. "I have a few southern dresses, Your Gra-"

"They're so dated I would think my grandmother wore them." Cersei rolled her eyes dully and sighed. "They'll be sent after the wedding of course, assuming you're here long after. Father is insisting on you and Jaime leaving for Casterly Rock within the fortnight."

_What_? Lyla's breathing hitched and she looked down at her twiddling thumbs. She was to get married in a matter of days and leave her family only weeks after? "That's ridiculous." She gasped, brows knitting together. "How is it that I don't have a say in this? I'm the bride and yet I hadn't even a clue when I'm to be married?" She hissed, forgetting propriety and standing in a fury.

Cersei looked at her, nearly amazed. "If only it were you that had married Robert." She sighed. "Ours is the fury. _Ha_." She took a long swig from her goblet and set it down, folding her hands. "Unfortunately I was bestowed with that honor, though. And you, you're to marry my brother. So, as future sister of the Queen and Lady of the Rock, I suggest," She gestured to Lyla's standing figure, "you stop acting like a _child_ and start acting like the_ woman_ you are. You _are_ a woman, are you not?"

A blush tickled at her cheeks and Lyla held her chin higher. "I am." Her last mooncycle had been the week after Jaime had reopened her stitches. She chose not to acknowledge Cersei's comment of her acting like a child and slowly sat back down. She _was_ acting like a child. Like Sansa.

"And a maid still, I assume? It wouldn't be fit to marry my brother to a whore."

"_Cersei_!" Both of their heads snapped to the door, and Lyla felt a flood of relief. "This woman is to be my wife, and you're degrading her like this?" Jaime swept into the room, golden brows knit together and green eyes ablaze.

There was no doubt that Lyla would have spiraled_ that_ conversation into oblivion, so even though she hated letting others fight her battles, she couldn't help but feel grateful for Jaime cutting in. It might have been okay to scream at Arya or Sansa the way she was about to scream at Cersei, but she was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Lyla's head would be on a spike. Readily she accepted his hand as he neared her, squeezing it until she was white-knuckled. How dare the Queen, rumored to be so adulterous, question her maidhood?

Cersei huffed and stood, stepping away from her brother to the other side of the table, as though his glare terrified her. It was like she'd never seen him angry. "I was just welcoming her into the family, brother." She said sweetly, testing a smile on her thick lips. "Simply speaking sister to sister."

Jaime obviously wasn't about to let his anger go though, and took a step in front of Lyla, but she pushed from behind him to stand at his side. She wasn't a helpless damsel. "Relax," She whispered to him, feeling his fingers twitch, thumb rubbing over her knuckles softly in contrary to his glare.

He looked down at her, and Lyla could understand then why Cersei decided to stand on the other side of the table. Jaime's stare was like wildfire; hot and menacing. "Come on," He urged, tugging at her hand as he made to leave.

"Jaime!" Cersei called after them as they left, but Jaime didn't look back, and Lyla didn't care to see the rage on the Queen's face. It would have been too much.

* * *

She heard the Queen hiss something unintelligible after they left, and she must have thrown a cup or a vase, for the rippling sounds of shattering glass echoed in the corridors that Jaime led Lyla through.

"Why'd you stand up for me like that?" She asked as soon as they were far enough away from Cersei's solar, stopping and raising a brow.

Jaime sighed before turning, looking down on her. His expression softened as his eyes fell upon her, seeming to drink in the sight before him. "You're not a whore, Lyla. She needs to understand that."

"I know I'm not," Lyla released his hand and folded her arms, looking away from him. Her mind switched to Lancel and she pursed her lips. He made her feel like a whore from a brothel, and with the way she reacted- so helpless and weak- she believed she deserved to feel that way. When she expressed such feelings to Jaime, though, his eyes darkened with anger once again.

"You're _not _a whore, Lyla. I just said as much. Don't you _ever_ say that. You weren't _helpless_, just scared. It's okay to be scared." His eyes were hooded and dark and his expression was fierce, gold hair becoming as shiny as his polished Kingsguard armor as the sun hit it just right, pouring through the window like water from a pitcher. Why was he so protective of her? Why did he _care_ if his sister called her a whore?

Lyla took a step closer to him. "Why are you so kind to me?" She asked, blue eyes narrowed as they desperately searched his green for answers. "Ever since I first helped you from the ground in Winterfell you've been nothing but nice. Why?" The question had been lingering in her mind for the past few days that she'd been alone in her chamber recuperating from the journey, and this seemed as good a time as any to ask it.

At first Jaime just stared at her with furrowed brows, as if the answer was so obvious, but she only tilted her head, holding her arms tighter to her body. It was only then that he'd spoken, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat. "Back in Winterfell, the day after your brother fell and I kissed you, I heard you talking in the stables with the Greyjoy boy. I heard it when you said you would marry me to keep your sisters safe at the capitol; to be able to watch them.

"It was the most endearing thing I'd probably ever heard, honestly, and went to my brother for advice. I wanted to make up for being so inconsiderate when I kissed you, you see, and do you know what he told me? He told me to just that once be the knight I always wanted to be, and be it for you." Jaime looked down, sighing. "When Lancel tried advancing on you, I kept trying to picture how all the knights I idolized as a boy would react… I didn't even realize I hit him until after it already happened."

Jaime had been taking short steps closer to her until Lyla could feel his breath on her hair, the warmth burning her like the southern heat never could. It was like fire on her scalp, and she could feel single strands of curls twitching from his breath. "And the moment you shined the light on what I did to Aerys Targaryen in the courtyard in Winterfell," He whispered, leaning down so their foreheads met. "Is when I realized how much I _liked_ being your knight."

Lyla was already overcome with the wedding and the pending move to Casterly Rock, and now there Jaime was, the bloody Kingslayer, the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms, practically spilling his heart out- and his was so, so _close_. "My knight," She echoed in a whisper, tasting the words on her tongue. They were almost sweet. "My knight."

He nodded, causing where their foreheads met to move slightly. "Your knight."

Lyla tilted her head up, feeling as her eyes grew more and more hooded, feeling as her heart beat like drums in her chest. Nervously, she wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her head ever so slightly until their lips met.

It was unsure and slow, their mouths just barely moving, and Lyla wondered if she was doing something wrong- but then Jaime wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer and she could feel the cool expanse of his armor through her thin silken gown.

He increased both the speed and intensity of their kiss, long calloused fingers reaching up and fisting into her hair, and Lyla followed his lead, fingering his golden curls cautiously. It was dangerous ground she was treading, it seemed, for she'd never kissed anyone but Jaime, and never had it been like this. Never had it been so passionate and, well, _wanted_- because oh no, Lyla Stark couldn't deny the deep and utter _want_ she was feeling as he moved his lips against hers so attentively, so lively. It was a straight rush to her head.

They kept kissing until Lyla pulled away, as breathless and startled as Jaime. They were in the halls of the Red Keep for anyone to see, and yet she found herself without a care. Her blue eyes met his green through thick lashes and he removed a hand from her hair to drag it up to her cheek, rubbing her bottom lip- swollen and deep pink, much like his own- with his thumb.

So much had changed regarding Lyla's feelings for Jaime since the day he arrived in Winterfell. At first she had been cautious yet kind, but as the weeks dragged on, their relationship changed to something that she'd never experienced before. It wasn't love that she felt for Jaime, at least not yet, but there was something growing between them that was undeniable.

Lyla lay in bed that night staring at her ceiling, listening to Rose snore at her side. Her lips still tingled and her heart was still pounding like horse hooves, and as she closed her eyes Jaime's smirking face played through her mind. He would be the death of her, she thought. He would be her husband in only days, and yet would be the death of her. Lyla smiled to herself, tugging the covers over her shoulders and turning on her side, realizing that the wedding, less than a week away, seemed less and less scary by the second. It wouldn't be the perfect marriage, she supposed. They were still new to each other and Lyla was still young, but now she at least knew he would try for as long as she did. _I will try_, she decided before letting sleep take her. _I will try_.

_*Alright, so as promised, this is a longer chapter. I wanted to get Cersei's personality more embedded into the story, kind of show the evil in her. I hope I kept all in character, especially with the little lemon-ey Jaime moment. (Sorry, I'm a hopeless romantic...)_  
_Hope you enjoyed my fluffy ending! I feel like they haven't really gotten any "alone time" to try anything out, so I just had to throw that in there. I wonder, too, if you all think I'm moving too fast with the wedding? I'm planning on a few more chapters until the actual event, at least three, because I'm going to give our love birds more time to kind of get to know each other._  
_Yes, I know that Tywin isn't at Harrenhal until the war begins, but I really wanted to wiggle him into the story- he's so fun to write! Hope you don't mind me doing that :3_  
_Anyways, thanks for reading doves! Have a beautiful evening, and don't forget to review/follow/favorite- I can't tell you enough how inspirational it is to see the emails pop up! :)_


	15. Chapter 15

Sunlight glittered through silken onyx drapes, morning birds sang their beautiful songs and the sound of music filled the air; Harps, lyres, flutes, drums, all a symphony that had been kept a constant since before dawn.

The hall was being cleaned, stripped, and redecorated with the Lannister colors in honor of the wedding; floors were polished until they shone gold, walls were covered in ruby cloth and the Lannister House banners were hung all around; a roaring golden lion on a field of red. _As befit of a Lannister wedding, _Lyla thought from where she sat in the hall beside her father, watching the surrounding area dissolve into a lion's den.

With the wedding only days away, it seemed the whole castle was working double time; both fulfilling their daily chores as well as new ones, like threading new tapestries or sewing her wedding gown among others that the Queen ordered. Mostly rubies and golds and only one or two of her House colors, among a few of lavender, ivy, and others. It was overwhelming, the wedding, and with Jaime being de-knighted that afternoon, but Lyla was just glad she had time to spend with her father.

"I miss you," She said, leaning her head onto Eddard's shoulder. He still smelled of the North,_ thank the gods_, and somehow managed to wear most of his northern attire despite the heat. "I barely get to see you anymore."

He turned his head and smiled into her hair, kissing her forehead. "I miss you too, sweet girl. I'm sorry I've been so wrapped up."

Lyla scooted closer to her father and sighed, wrapping her arms around him. "It's not your fault, it's the King's. He's keeping you all to himself, it's not fair," She murmured into the sleeve of his tunic, laughing profusely as he tickled her sides.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" He asked her, raising a brow as she pulled away and rested her elbow on the table, chin on her open palm.

"I don't know," She answered, looking away. She couldn't be sure of much now, with everything that was going on, but it didn't matter much anyways. There was no backing out this late, and the kiss that she and Jaime shared in the hall… She wasn't sure if she would make a good wife, in any measure, but she would try. That much she was sure of. "I'll be ready when the time comes, father," She said, looking back to her father.

Eddard gave her a solemn nod, sighing. "I know," He said, "Just like your mother when you say things like that. She was never sure of anything until it happened, but it always worked out."

Her father's voice was slick with longing, a perfect match to the wistful look in his sleet grey eyes. She knew he missed her mother, Catelyn, it was written all over his face, and though she had been bitter to Lyla since Bran's fall, the eldest Stark daughter missed her mother too. "I always thought she'd be there," She confessed, frowning slightly. "To help me get dressed and brush my hair… She always loved to brush my hair."

An arm reached around her shoulders and Lyla molded into her father's embrace, closing her eyes and feeling his chest rise and fall. "I'll be there, sweet girl," He said, and she could feel his warm breath on her hair. "Your sisters too. And the wolves. Jon isn't so far away, either."

His attempts at reassuring her that everything would be fine weren't going to waste, as Lyla relished in his words, nodding. It had been so long since she and her father talked, and hearing him try and comfort her was better than Theon's laugh or even Jaime's smirk. "I love you, father," She whispered to him, wrapping her arms around his middle and holding him for a moment as he placed another kiss on her forehead.

"I love you too, wild wolf of mine," Said her father, who didn't make fast to untangle himself from her as footsteps neared them, and they both sighed when Jory spoke.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but the King has called upon you." He bowed to Lyla and gave her a wary smile before looking back to her father. "He said it was urgent."

"How urgent that it cannot wait?"

Jory's already tight smile thinned. "Very, sire," He said.

"Very well," Eddard sighed deeply, and for the first time, Lyla noticed the tired expression that was creeping into the worry lines around his eyes and mouth. "Jory, why don't you go see about waking Sansa. Lyla, might you wake Arya?"

Lyla nodded, giving her father a kiss on the cheek before rising and helping him up. "I'll wake her, no worries."

Eddard gave his daughter a short nod and left, Jory on his heels until he turned and trailed up the long, curling staircase that led to the Tower of the Hand. Lyla followed them with her eyes, tensing as they landed on a certain pair of green irises that were already watching her.

Jaime Lannister smiled as he neared her, running a hand through his golden hair. "Good morning," He murmured, pulling her in for a kiss. Lyla turned though, so his lips pressed against her cheek.

"Not here," She pulled away and raised a brow, though her lips curled into a betraying grin as she intertwined her fingers through his. "Good morning."

"You worry too much," He leaned in and kissed her cheek again, smirking. "We're getting married, I'm sure these maids won't mind seeing our intimacy."

"_I_ would mind," Lyla rolled her eyes, grin growing. "I'm going to wake up my sister, I'll see you at the ceremony," She said, moving away from him.

He was unrelenting though, as he pulled her back to him and held his arm out for her, "I'll walk you."

* * *

There was a rustling behind Arya's door, and Lyla knocked lightly, hoping that it was only her sister in there.

"Go away," Arya called from inside the room, and Lyla looked up at Jaime, if only to see the obscene smirk at her younger sister's impropriety.

"Arya, open the door," Lyla said, leaning against the wood until, defeated, she heard her sister sigh and unbolt the door, opening it for her. "May I come in?" She asked, surprised that her sister was already up and dressed.

Her sister had styled her hair the northern way, double braids wrapped into a loose bun behind her neck, a simple thin woolen gown of grey pulled over her. There was a glint by her waist and Lyla looked down, brows climbing higher. "Whose sword is that?" She asked, pressing her fingertips to the blade's steel.

"Mine," Arya said impassively.

"Give it here," Said the eldest Stark daughter, holding her hand out, palm up, unaware of Jaime's presence in the doorway now.

Arya handed her the sword and Lyla moved towards the fire to get a better look at it. The mark was so familiar… "I know this maker's mark," She said, glancing over to Arya. "This is Mikken's work."

"This is no toy," Said Jaime as he closed the door behind him, stepping in and inspecting the blade over Lyla's shoulder. "Little lady's shouldn't play with swords."

Arya rolled her steel grey eyes. "I wasn't playing, and I don't want to be a lady."

Lyla smiled at her sister, sitting on the trunk at the foot of her tiny bed. "Come here," She said, patting the place beside her. _She's so much like I was at that age_, she marveled. "What would you want with this?" She asked, admiring the gleam of the castle forged steel as her eyes lingered back to the blade. She could see her bright Tully eyes in the reflection, and felt her brows knit together; where they really that blue?

"It's called Needle," Arya said, pulling her sister from her thoughts.

"Hm, a blade with a name," Jaime smiled down on the sisters, and Arya eyed him for a moment before looking back to Lyla.

"And who were you hoping to skewer with Needle? Sansa, perhaps?" Lyla wrapped her arm over her sister's shoulders, smiling as she felt the girl lean into her.

"Do you know the first thing about swordfighting?" Jaime asked, golden brow raised.

Arya grinned softly, "Sick them with the pointy end."

Lyla and Jaime both fell into laughter, it was light, but it was enough to fill the room. "That's the essence of it," Lyla said, fingering the pommel of the sword.

"I was trying to learn," Arya said, looking only at Jaime then. "I _asked_ Mycah to practice with me…" The girl looked away for a moment, only to drag her stare right back to the Lannister that now sat on the floor beside her, giving the youngest Stark daughter his full attention. "I asked him… It was my fault."

"Oh, no, no sweet girl. No, no," Jaime placed a concerned hand over Arya's folded two, looking up at her sadly. "You didn't kill that butcher's boy."

Arya sighed, "I hate all of them," She said, clear as day, fire burning behind her eyes of stone. "The Hound, the Queen and the King. And Joffrey and Sansa!"

"Sansa was dragged before the King and Queen and asked to call the Prince a liar," Lyla placed a hand on her sister's cheek, forcing her to look her in the eyes.

"I was too! He _is_ a liar."

"Shhh, darling, listen to me," Lyla kissed her sister's forehead, sighing. "Sansa will be married to Joffrey some day. She cannot betray him. She must take his side, even if he's wrong."

"But how can you let her marry someone like that? How can _father_ let her marry someone like that?"

Lyla pursed her lips. "Look at me. You're a Stark of Winterfell, you know our words."

"Winter is coming."

"You were born in the long summer; you've never known anything else. But now, winter is truly coming, and in the winter, we must protect ourselves. Look after one another. Sansa is your sister."

Arya looked defeated, brows furrowing as her eyes flickered to Jaime for the quickest moment. "I don't hate her," She admitted solemnly. "Not really."

"I don't want to frighten you," Jaime said from his spot in the floor, hand still over Arya's. "But you've come to a dangerous place."

Lyla nodded in agreement, "We cannot fight a war amongst ourselves right now."

Arya looked down, frowning, and Lyla sighed again. Arya would never be the lady Sansa strived to be; would never _want_ to be that. There was no point in taking from Arya what would end up being her only vice here in the capitol. _I came here to keep them safe, and should I leave soon, I want them to be able to protect themselves_."Go on," She said softly, holding out the pommel of the blade. "It's yours."

"I can keep it?" Arya brightened up immediately as she grabbed the sword's hilt, holding it up proudly.

"Try not to stab your sister with it," Jaime mused, and Arya affectionately glared at him, punching his arm as hard as her tiny fists could.

Lyla grinned and placed one last kiss on the crown of her sister's head. "I'll have to tell father. If you're going to own a sword, you've got to know how to use it." She watched as her sister swung and swung, holding it out as if to challenge her. They shared a giggle as they did when they were just children, and Arya smiled truly at her sister.

"Thank you, Ly."

She nodded, smile curling on her lips. "I'll see you at the ceremony. Be ready."

Jaime stepped from the room and Arya gingerly placed the sword on the trunk before jumping into Lyla's arms, apologizing when the brunette winced at the contact with her right forearm.

"Are you really marrying him, Lyla?" Asked Arya as she held on tighter.

Lyla stepped back to accommodate the weight of her thin little sister and chuckled, "I am," She said simply, nodding.

Arya pulled back just enough so that Lyla could see her face, eyes- both Tully blue and Stark grey- locked on one another. "He better treat you right. Or else I may have to stab _him_ with Needle."

Lyla grinned and set her sister on the floor, "If he doesn't, I might just have to let you."

* * *

After Jaime shut the door behind them, he'd given her a knowing grin. "I dare say she's wilder than even you," He jested, earning him an elbow to the ribs. Lyla smirked at her victory when Jaime rubbed his side, glad he wasn't clad in his armor until the ceremony. "Not that it's a bad thing, really. I admire her spirit."

"As do I. She'll be remarkable when she grows up," Lyla folded her hands around Jaime's arm as he held it out and they began walking back to the hall, but he pulled her into a divot in wall, shadowed and hidden from the rest of the tower it seemed.

"Just like you," He said, voice becoming a rasp as he lowered his head and claimed her lips as his own.

This kiss was nothing like the one they'd shared in the hall the previous day. This kiss was insistent and quick and feverish, full of want and need. A noise that was comparable to a moan rippled through Lyla's throat as his tongue flicked across the part of her lips, and she slowly opened her mouth for him.

He tasted like wine and the same sugary something that she couldn't place since their first kiss. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair, unintentionally deepening their kiss as she pulled him closer to her. She liked the feel of his hands tugging at the silks that covered her waist, the feel of his callused fingers covering every inch of her back and fisting into her masses of unruly brown curls. It was all so much, yet such a release from all the other stresses that cluttered her life in the capitol.

When they kissed, she didn't have time to think about their wedding or the gasps of shock from Sansa and Septa Mordane at the impropriety of the situation should they have been caught; not even of his father arriving only the next day and his being de-knighted only minutes from then. Not even the southron heat affected her as their lips touch. No, none of that swam through her mind. Only the need of his deft touch, of his tongue dancing with hers.

Lyla pulled away for a moment to catch her breath and almost laughed at Jaime's expression. He looked so helpless; golden curls askew and lips swollen and pink, panting as his hands slid to cup her cheeks.

"We have to go," She whispered, resting her head on his chest as his hands smoothed over her curls. "You'll be late for your own ceremony."

She could feel Jaime shrug and smiled into his chest, listening to his quick-paced heartbeat. "Being disowned from the Kingsguard," He scoffed, sighing, warm breath seeping through her ringlets and onto her scalp. "I'd much rather be here, with you."

"In the shadows of a hallway?" She grinned cattishly as she looked up at him, kissing his cheek. "Come on," She said, running her fingers through his hair and pursing her lips to sooth the color that vividly ran through them.

She almost had to pull him from the shadows, but eventually he came willingly enough, agreeing to go ahead of her so she could meet with Sansa, Jory, and Arya; and to cloak suspicions of their whereabouts.

"I'll see you soon," He murmured into her ear before he left with a goofy smile on his lips that she'd never seen before. Nodding, she repeated the same and watched him go, touching her bottom lip tenderly.

"What a scene."

Lyla turned and raised her brow, narrowing her eyes. "Petyr Baelish," She folded her arms and took a step away from him, looking behind her shoulder to see Jaime had already gone. Her eyes lingered on the ground for a moment before returning to the man whose presence gave Lyla chills.

He had a pointed beard and wasn't as tall as her father or Jaime, and held the cruelest of smirks on his thin lips. "Oh don't be ashamed, Lady Stark. Moments between a man and his lady wife are meant to be passionate," Petyr smiled tighter then, "But you're not married yet, no? Shame."

"Shame?" Lyla took yet another step back as he stepped forward. "We're to be married in a matter of days, I don't see the problem in us being… passionate."

Petyr looked out one of the windows, smile never creeping from his lips, beard unmoving in the slight breeze that danced through the curtains. "Mayhaps I'm only warning you," Said the man that might be shorter than even Lyla herself.

"Warning me of what?" Questioned Lyla.

"Little birds chirp the strangest of things, Lady Stark." He said, holding his hands up as if in defeat, shrugging softly. His strange southron garb shook with his movement and Lyla held her chin higher in defiance to him.

"I know you, Lord Baelish. I may not be a Maester, but I've learned from one of the smartest in Westeros, so I'm not so naïve as you may have been led to believe. I don't trust you, and I see no reason to continue this conversation." She turned and as if on cue, Sansa and Septa Mordane came strutting down the halls, Jory at their heels. They seemed engrossed in their small talk and Lyla sighed in relief that she was finally no longer alone with this strange, small man. "Your birds may chirp as they like, Lord Baelish. I will not care to hear. And I am no lady."

With that, Lyla spun on her heel and left to meet with her sister. It had been too long since she'd talked with Sansa.

* * *

The ceremony had been tedious.

It lasted for over three hours, or so the ladies gossiped, and the High Septon had poured too much oil over Jaime and his cloak almost caught aflame twice. It would have been ironic really, to save the realm from the Targaryen fire only to perish by fire lit from lavender oil the color of their mad eyes.

After it had ended, Lyla had been whisked away, before should could see Jaime again, to dine with the highborn ladies and their children with Sansa while Arya went to speak with Jory, who had been instructed to take her to bed, their father off with the small council not long after the oil had been mopped from the ground.

It had been a busy day and Lyla was tired, so she and Sansa retired, as Sansa had no chaperone but her elder sister and wasn't allowed to stay on her own; Lyla didn't like their influence on her sweet sister.

Instead of walking her sister to her room and returning to her own again, Lyla had instructed Carinya- who had been off buying silks and jewels for her gown the previous day, at the Queen's request- to bring Lady to her room and have Sansa spend the night with her in her chambers.

"It's been so long since we've had a sleepover," Sansa whispered from where she slept beside her sister, curled to face her.

Lyla smiled, the gentle silver moonlight illuminating their features from where it poured out of the windows across the room. The windows were all open, letting a stiff breeze caress the two sisters every once in a while, and they'd both been grateful for it. "I've missed you, Sansa." She whispered back, "I'm sorry I don't spend much time with you, sister."

Sansa shook her head softly, fiery curls splaying out around her shoulders and on the pillow her head rested on. Oh how Lyla was jealous of her sister's lovely ruby curls, frowning as a strand of her own russet ringlets fell in her face. Sansa wiped the stray curl away and tucked it behind her sister's ear. "It's alright. I've enjoyed spending time with Jeyne and Lady."

Both pairs of Tully eyes switched to the direwolves then, who rested directly below the windows, as if to keep as cold as they could. Lady was resting with her head on her paws, laying in a perfect line with her tail wrapping around her legs as Rose sprawled on her back, all four legs in the air, head on the ground with one ear relaxed on the ground and one flopped over itself.

They giggled quietly and Sansa pulled closer to her elder sister, resting her head over her folded arm. "Are you scared?" She asked, blue eyes burning with curiosity and exhaustion.

"I am," Lyla answered truthfully, but smiled. "Remember how mother told us that love was gradual? That you had to build it day by day?" Sansa nodded eagerly, smiling at her memory. "Well that's what I'm working on doing with Jaime."

"You love him?" Sansa's eyes were wide, silver moonlight making them look just as Stark as Arya's eyes were.

Lyla snickered, shaking her head, "I don't know. I don't think I do. Not yet. But I want to."

Sansa smiled warmly. "I want you to, too." She said. "He's so handsome and valiant and wonderful." Yawning, the red haired Stark daughter closed her eyes, huddling tighter into the furs that Lyla had wrapped around them. "Goodnight, Lyla." She murmured, voice slick with sleep.

"Goodnight, Sansa," Lyla whispered, but by then, her sister had already drifted into a soft slumber, and so Lyla closed her eyes too, quickly dreaming of Jaime's lips on hers, world melting away as his laugh filled her ears.

_*So, more of a character building sort of chapter. Well, maybe not character building, but relationship building. I feel like I've neglected my dear old Starks, so here it is! And I wanted to get Jaime in better with the family, so I feel that this was necessary. I know that the Arya conversation is originally with Ned, and it takes place before this time, but its a fanfiction story, so I figured y'all wouldn't mind._  
_Getting fluffier and fluffier between Lyla and Jaime as the wedding nears- phew! _  
_Next chapter will be the Lannister family dinner; Lyla, Jaime, Cersei, Twyin, and the royal children. I'm nervous about it and I'm the writer!_  
_Anyways, please enjoy, and I hope to hear from you all! I've absolutely loved reading all these reviews; they've really been brightening my mood lately. Have a lovely morning, doves. :)_


	16. Chapter 16

Jaime wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to his body. Her scent was of rosewater and honey, and her skin was as soft as silk. "So sweet," he murmured into her ear, nibbling at it and kissing down her neck.

Sunlight glittered against her skin, drenching her in a golden film. She was turned away from him, and her gentle snores filled his ears like a melody, hair hidden underneath a shroud of red-dyed wool.

"Wake up, sweet girl," he whispered to her, shaking her arm faintly. "Wake up, wake up."

The snores slowly died away, and Jaime raised a brow as warmth pooled around his body. Swinging the bed silks away, he looked down, dipping his fingers into the blood that seeped into the white linens. "S-sweet girl?" He shook her arm again, more violently, sitting up. "Wake up!" Her body rolled over, and he gasped, kicking away from the bed in shock, falling to the ground and scurrying to his feet.

There lay Lyla, blood pouring from her mouth, as well as pooling around her lower section, between her legs, which were spread out as though she were giving birth. Her pale skin suddenly turned ash grey, her hair tumbling from the red-dyed wool, crisping and dulling to a muddy silver shade. Livid blue eyes stared at him, tears falling from them as she raised her arm out for him, beckoning him to go to her.

"Jaime," She whispered hoarsely, bright eyes following him as he cautiously stepped closer to her, "Jaime, Jaime, Jaime."

He reached for her, "Lyla," he breathed, voice drenched in fear and question. When his fingers graced her cheek, the flesh melted away and she screamed. _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime_.

"Jaime!"

He woke with a start, flailing his arms and kicking his legs as hard as he could. He still smelled her, rosewater and honey, still felt the warmth of her skin underneath his own- but he could also smell the decay of her body as he touched her cheek, feel the sticky blood on his fingertips.

He forced himself to still, breathing deeply to steady his fast-paced heart. _It was just a dream, it was just a dream_, Jaime thought to himself as he sat up, running a hand through his hair.

It all seemed so real, looked so real. _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime_, she screamed, _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime_! He wanted to go to her, wanted comfort from her; to feel her in his arms. But at the same time, half of his mind craved Cersei.

He hadn't missed her particularly, certainly not after she'd questioned Lyla's maidenhood, but his sister knew him as no other did. Tyrion would have told him to bugger Cersei and let Lyla in, Jaime knew, and found himself starting to think the same way.

Lyla was chaste, fresh, and inviting, where as Cersei was used, old, and gods was she cold. As frigid as the ice she hated so much, with a sneer on her lips that was as unbecoming as it was judgmental. But Lyla… Jaime sighed, shaking his head as he rose from his four-post bed, rolling his neck as he called for a maid to enter his chamber.

The room was messy, as he always left it, and the bathroom wasn't much cleaner as he stepped into it, looking around. The marble flooring was smeared with dirt, clothes were scattered around the room, and it seemed the bronze tub- the second largest in the castle aside from Cersei and Robert's, at Cersei's insistence- was the cleanest thing in either room, and probably his solar, too.

He hadn't cared to clean up after himself and hadn't had the patience to let others do it for him, but as his mind cluttered with Lyla, he remembered that after the wedding, she was to live in his chambers with him.

"Ser?"

Jaime turned his head, pulling his robe closer to his body. A maid stood in the doorway, tall and willowy with sleek black hair done up in the southern way and big sapphire eyes staring. She was one of the girls that Eddard had assigned to his daughters. "You're a Stark maid, why are you here?"

She curtsied and kept her eyes down. "There were no others around, and I was finished with the Lady Lyla's chores for me, Ser."

"I'm not a Ser anymore," Jaime said, trailing his fingertips along the rim of the tub. "Bring some water for a bath, and someone to help you clean. I'm afraid I've neglected that duty as of late," The girl nodded, leaving him to his thoughts.

Jaime wondered about his marriage as he waited for the maid to return. What would the wedding night be like? Would she stay with him in his room, or sleep in the room conjoined to his? Maybe she wouldn't want him after she'd had him. That was always Cersei's favorite part; the chase. _No, Lyla isn't Cersei_, he reminded himself firmly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He still didn't know how exactly he felt about his little wolf girl. She was brilliant, funny, and most certainly beautiful, but he just couldn't bring himself to believe he loved her. At least not yet. He cared for her, that much was for sure, but Cersei was the only woman he'd ever loved, and honestly, he wasn't sure how to love anybody else.

The sound of sloshing water filled the room and Jaime looked up to see the maid from before with another that could have been her twin, if she weren't thicker and shorter. The taller one was carrying water pales, and the shorter one began busying herself with straightening up Jaime's chamber before he even asked their names. _Quick work_, he thought. The tall maid filled the tub and placed viles of scents on the counter across the room before collecting all the clothing and taking her leave, closing the door behind her.

Of all the scents, only one stood out to Jaime; rosewater. It was Lyla's scent. Mayhaps it had been placed there by chance, but Jaime wondered if Lyla had _told_ the maid to put it there.

He smirked, picking the bottle up and popping the cork cap off with his thumb, holding it close to his nose as he inhaled the scent. It brought him back to the previous day; quick paced and heavy breathing, hot skin, flushed cheeks, hands all over. The kisses he shared with Lyla were something that he never experienced, even with Cersei.

With Cersei, every kiss was the same, from the very first to the very last he could remember sharing with her, they all felt feverent and quick, as though she were trying to be rid of him as soon as possible. But with Lyla it was so new. Every kiss was a difference experience; from slow and steady to heated and passionate.

Something in his body stirred, and Jaime figured it was time to bathe.

* * *

The afternoon sun glimmered high in the pale sky, bright and shining in a glory that Jaime had always marveled at. The gardens around them were in full bloom, fountains spraying cool, crisp water into bowls of gold and copper alike.

After his bath, Jaime had dressed in his House Colors; a ruby doublet to match his golden trousers and swung a cloth-of-gold cloak around his shoulders, admiring the ruby lion that was embroidered onto it. He'd broken his fast with the children, Tommen, Myrcella, and Joffrey, and ran into Lyla not much later, refusing to leave her side for the rest of the morning. He still hadn't told her about the dream, but her presence, knowing she was safe, was enough to still his fears and quell his worries.

"What if he doesn't like me?" She whispered to him, intertwining her fingers through his. He knew she meant Tywin; who else could she mean, as they stood at the King's Gate with Cersei, Eddard, and countless others, to greet him?

Jaime looked down at his betrothed and smiled, "He'll love you," Lyla was clad in his House colors as well, in a silken gown of blood red with gold accents and stitchwork, velvet curls brushed through with most of it pulled back into a loose plait, leaving her looking every bit a Lannister's wife. "Everybody does."

Lyla rolled her eyes and shoved at his arm with her elbow, "I'm being serious, Jaime."

"I am too," He said, squeezing her hand. It was true; everybody that met Lyla fell in love with her, save Cersei and Joffrey, and though he couldn't say he loved her fully, Jaime was falling more each day.

The sounds of trumpets blaring marked that Tywin wasn't far from the gate, and Jaime suddenly felt uneasy. All his life Jaime had been pulled around by Cersei, placed here and forced there, and his father had always resented him for it, resulting in Jaime not seeing his father in years.

He glanced to Cersei for the first time that day, giving in to the need to see her face. They came into the world together, so she loved to remind him, and whether or not he still loved her, looking at her still gave him a regrettable strength. She stood with her head held high, chin to the cloudless blue sky, gold hair a tumble down her back. Her garb was surprisingly Baratheon; black with golden trimming, bearing a small whisp of a crown, near a replica of Robert's own, with onyx circling the base. _Father wouldn't have his Queen daughter parading around in her gowns of ruby and gold, now would he?_

As the familiar sight of ruby plated guards turned the bend of the King's Road and neared the gates, Jaime felt Lyla tense beside him and looked back down at her. She tilted her head up no doubt to look taller, and stretched her back straighter. _She's so small_, he mused, leaning down slightly to kiss the crown of her head, smiling into her hair for a moment before running his thumb over her knuckles and turning back to the road, where he could faintly see his father.

Tywin was clad in a set of golden armor that shone brighter than the sun that loomed over head, the roaring ruby lion that graced the Lannister House banners painted decoratively on his breast plate. He looked tall and as regal as a king despite his age and thinned pale hair.

His father's vivid green eyes browsed the welcoming party as he neared the King's Gate on his horse of white. He only glanced at Cersei, expression both of approval and disinterest, and gave a slight nod to his three grandchildren, who all stared at him excitedly. When his eyes met Eddard's, they raised their chins at each other.

It seemed that Tywin was saving his son for last, and when Jaime finally felt his father's hot gaze, he clenched his jaw. He couldn't rightly read the expression that his father held, not even when he inspected Lyla over, eying her head to toe, which only made Jaime more nervous. He could only imagine that the little bride of his felt meek as she stood barely at Jaime's shoulder, now directly before the man that was to be her goodfather, but she surprised him, as she so often did.

"Lord Tywin, I'm pleased to finally meet you. Jaime speaks highly of you, as does everyone," Lyla donned a warm smile and as soon as Tywin was off of his stallion, she closed the distance between them, embracing him as though he were her father for true.

"Lady Lyla," Tywin greeted, bowing his head to hide the shock of her hug in his eyes.

"I hope your journey wasn't too taxing, my lord." Said Lyla, retreating back to Jaime's side and taking his hand again. Her hand was warm and Jaime welcomed it, grinning down at her with a raised brow, wondering how she was able to be so bold to such an intimidating man.

Tywin shook his head, handing his reins to a stablehand, "It was fine, my lady," he replied, his eyes falling on Jaime then, and switching to Cersei not long after. "Your Grace," He bowed his head politely, looking to the children.

"Hello, Grandfather!" Myrcella and Tommen squealed in equal excitement, their lovely smiles growing as, in his rare act of kindness, he knelt down and accepted their hugs. Had Lyla melted some of the ice that covered his heart? If Jaime weren't so tense, he might have laughed.

"Father," Jaime greeted as Cersei pulled Tywin in for a short embrace. "So good to see you again. I've missed you," She said, smiling her practiced Queenly smile; the one that never seemed to reach her already dulling, bored green eyes.

Tywin and Eddard exchanged their pleasantries, as well as he and Joffrey, and before long Myrcella, Tommen, and Joffrey were escorted away by the Queen and Eddard took his leave to see to business, and it was just Lyla, Jaime, and Tywin.

"If you would follow me, my lord, I'll escort you to your chambers," Lyla smiled and took Tywin's arm as he hesitantly held it out for her, Jaime trailing slightly behind them.

"Very well," Tywin said, following the little wolf's lead as she walked through the Red Keep. "How have you been taking to the South, Lady Stark?"

Lyla looked up at him and her smile grew visibly tighter, "It's very warm, sire. Lovely city."

Tywin raised a brow, "Lovely? I suppose it could be. Has my son been treating you well?"

"Very," Lyla replied, craning her neck around to grin at Jaime toothily. She turned away all too quickly, though, and Jaime immediately missed her face. "He's been very kind, Lord Tywin, I assure you."

"And my daughter?"

Lyla's step paused for a moment and Jaime tensed, remembering the conversation that he'd eaves dropped on two days passed rather well. However, she regained her composure and smiled again, "Her Grace treats me as well as any Queen would treat her brother's betrothed," She said, weighing her words carefully.

Tywin acknowledged her words with a nod and they stopped again, standing before a pair of double oak doors, dark stained with gilded metal handles. Jaime could tell that Cersei spared no expenses for her father. "It seems our time has come to a close for now, my lady. I'll see you at dinner," He said calmly.

It was Lyla's turn to raise a brow then, "I'm sorry, my lord? I was under the impression that I was dining with your family the night before the wedding."

Jaime stepped up and intertwined his fingers through hers, furrowing his brows. "Has the wedding been moved up again?" Wasn't it enough that they only had a few days to prepare? Setting it for the next day would be too much to handle.

"Well, I'm here, why not? The wedding will take place the day after tomorrow." With that, Tywin swept into his room, closing the door before either Jaime or Lyla could object.

* * *

Jaime stood there stunned, looking to a pair of lucid blue eyes that were already on him. _Two days_, Jaime thought absently. In just two days, the woman before him would be his wife. She would call him _husband_ and they would share a room, a life. _A bed_.

Without saying a word, Lyla sighed and leaned into him, laying her head against his chest, and Jaime wrapped his arms around her out of instinct, resting his chin on the top of her head.

Jaime knew why she needed comfort. He needed it too; more than he knew. They were still new to each other, having hardly known each other for three moons, and they were to marry in a matter of days. As he smoothed her hair with his right hand, his left clung to her waist for what seemed to be forever, soothed and serene with her in his arms. After a while, though, Lyla pulled away and gave him a confused smile.

"It'll all work out," She said, pecking his cheek.

He nodded, claiming her lips with his own for a moment before lacing their fingers together once more, one hand cupping her cheek. "I know it will," He said, leaning down so their foreheads touched.

"I'm scared," Lyla admitted, and Jaime's brows furrowed. That was the last thing he expected her to say. Lyla, the Wildling of Winterfell, Winter's Daughter, was scared? But maybe it wasn't such an obscene notion, for Jaime, the Lion of Lannister, the Kingslayer, was scared too.

He straightened up and tugged lightly at her hand so she would follow him as he walked away from his father's chambers. "In years we'll laugh at how frightened we were, when we're old and grey at Casterly Rock with our babes surrounding us."

Lyla laughed slightly, and Jaime could feel she was looking up at him. "We'll have twenty babes," she mused, "Ten that look like you, and ten that look like me. They'll all be named Tywin."

They both laughed then, and Jaime kissed her temple casually. "I'd rather they _all_ look like you," He murmured. "I rather like your looks."

"You're growing bold, Lannister," She mused, squeezing his hand. Jaime smiled and turned them around the corner until they reached the entrance to Jaime's favorite garden in the Keep, the Eden.

The garden looked stunning in the sunset's golden light. The terracotta tiles looked a mix of ruby and brown, scaling along a thin walkway and on the walls around them as he led her further into the depths. There were plush greens to act as a backdrop for the vibrant violets and magentas, with yellow poppies sprouting up all around them and roses climbing up the open-faced walls. They reached a slender bench and he waited for her to sit, allowing her time to view the garden around her in awe.

Remembering their conversation two days passed, Jaime felt the need to do something spontaneous, something out on a limb. He would do what the knights he looked up to as a boy would do, and he only hoped for the best as he knelt on one knee before her.

"Jaime?" She raised a brow and Jaime sighed at her beauty. The sunset's warm light caressed her like candlelight and illuminated her features, making her already startlingly blue eyes bluer.

"Lyla," He began, taking her two hands in his. "I know this isn't… ideal. Being forced into this with a man you hardly know," He stopped for a moment, mind being dragged to Cersei, and how unhappy she was in her marriage to Robert. He hoped that Lyla wouldn't be half so unhappy. "but these past few months, I find myself enjoying your company more than I ever dared hope."

She looked as wide eyed as a doe, brows raised in question. "What are you on about, Jaime?" She whispered, clearly perplexed.

"I'm asking you to be my wife because you _want_ to," He said, watching as thought shrouded her eyes, her lips pursing.

Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Maybe he should have escorted her to her chamber and left her to herself until dinner came, but now it was too late to take anything back. Lyla looked down for a long while, biting her lip until it was white around her creamy teeth.

"You're serious?" She asked, eyes swinging back up to meet his, brows knit together as though she'd been lost in thought for years. He nodded, and she folded her arms, "You're asking for permission to have my hand?" When he nodded again, she let a tiny smile tickle at the corners of her mouth and though Jaime hadn't prepared himself for any specific answer, he was pleasantly surprised when she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed just below his ear, whispering, "Okay."

He grinned widely, folding his arms around her waist and standing. She smelled so familiarly of rosewater that he suddenly remembered about the vile of rosewater scent that the tall maid placed on his counter in his bathroom that morning.

"Did you tell your maid to put the rosewater scent in my room?" He asked coyly, kissing up and down her neck.

She giggled and playfully swatted his shoulder until he set her on the ground, and for the first time in what seemed months, Jaime coaxed an unabashed blush from Lyla Stark. "All my rosewater is being sent there anyways, I thought I might get a head start."

As the sun's last rays poured over them, Lyla and Jaime shared a kiss new to both of them. Their tongues danced, their hands roamed, and their lips grew absurdly swollen; it was passion, need, and the pleasurable savory slowness that Jaime craved. Innocence- her innocence- drove him up the wall with need.

He turned and sat on the bench, pulling her onto his lap as he fisted into her masses of curls, plait now undone, drawing her lips back to his. "Beautiful," he murmured into her lips, kissing and nibbling and not feeling slightly ashamed of the quiet moans his throat ripped.

"Thank you, ser," She mused, voice slick with sarcasm. He deepened the kiss, and in response she kissed back harder, hands cradling the back of his head as she worked to get even closer to him.

It was a kiss so intense that Jaime felt his member pulsing below his trousers and pulled away quickly, sliding her off of his lap. Lyla looked up at him confused and he kissed the tip of her nose, "It wouldn't do good to arrive at dinner looking like we'd just…"

"I understand," Lyla said, saving him from the explanation. She stood, smoothing her dress and desperately tried to detangle her curls with her fingers, but gave up, sighing in frustration as she bent down to pick up the ribbon that held her plait earlier.

"Let me," Jaime murmured, standing and running his fingers patiently through her russet ringlets, admiring how they shined even in the equilibrium of day and night. It didn't take long to rake the tangles from her hair and she didn't fuss once if it tugged or caught on his fingers, and he pulled the ribbon from under her hair and around it, making a single ponytail in the back. "You look lovely," He whispered in her ear.

She seemed to shiver as his breath caressed her ear and turned, smiling. She certainly looked kissed- swollen pink lips glistening slightly- but other than that and the fact that her hair was no longer plaited, she looked the same as before; completely beautiful.

Quickly, he smoothed out his doublet and ran his fingers through his hair until it was smooth, taking her hand and leading her from the gardens. Moonlight was beginning to twinkle in the horizon and dinner would be starting.

* * *

Jaime couldn't have been more bored.

He sat sandwiched between Cersei and Tywin while Lyla sat directly across from him, Tommen and Myrcella at her sides. Joffrey sat beside Cersei, and Jaime desperately wished that the empty seat beside Tywin held Tyrion, but it didn't.

"I'm so glad you joined us for dinner, Lady Lyla," Myrcella chirped, sipping on a glass of sweetmilk, bright green eyes locked on Lyla since she'd stepped foot into the Queen's solar.

Lyla smiled and sipped some water politely, "Thank you, Princess. I'm rather glad I came myself. I've missed seeing you."

"I wish Rose could have come," Tommen sighed miserably, playing with the food on his plate.

"Tommen, there will be no talk of wolves at the table," Cersei reprimanded, chin held high as she looked down on her younger son. "Bad enough we must keep them in the capitol."

Jaime lifted his leg slightly so his foot touched Lyla's shin and she looked up at him, seeing the way he shook his head as if to say, "Don't say anything."

They had been on like this for nearly an hour; Myrcella appraising Lyla, Lyla politely responding, Tommen moping, and Cersei hissing. It was a chain that never ended, even though their meal had by then.

"Cersei, why don't you have the children taken to bed?" Jaime suggested, nodding to the little Prince Tommen as he yawned as large as a lion roared.

"I'm not a child, I don't have to go," came a high-pitched voice, and nearly everyone rolled their eyes at Joffrey, who sat tall with his high velvet collar of Baratheon black, rimmed in gold. "Right mother? I'm a man."

"Not a man yet," Tywin raised a brow at the boy, and he scowled, about to retort, but Cersei hushed him by gracing her fingertips on the back of his hand.

"Hush, my sweet," She cooed, and Jaime didn't miss how Myrcella closed her eyes and leaned into the voice like it was the only way she'd even imagine getting attention from Cersei. Lyla was quick to reach over and wrap her hand around the princess', though, which caused his golden girl to smile giddily.

"You'll be my favorite aunt, Lady Lyla. Even when Uncle Tyrion gets married, you'll always be my favorite." Myrcella beamed and leaned against Lyla's arm, causing Cersei to release a dark growl.

Tommen smiled up at Lyla despite his mother, though, and nodded, "Mine too. You'll be mine too."

Joffrey wasn't so easy to please, it seemed, for he sneered deeply. "She'll not be mine," He muttered childishly, "I hate her. She's a scab on her dirty northern family."

"Joffrey," Jaime growled. "Watch yourself, boy."

"I'm not a boy, I'm the crown prince! I'll be King!" Joffrey cried, wormy lips curling down.

"You're not King yet," Tywin's voice was strong and stern, though he never raised it. "You will apologize to the Lady Lyla, and then you will go to bed with your brother and sister. Should you refuse, I'll have Ser Meryn take you rather the maid, is that understood?"

Joffrey looked indignant, glaring furiously, but looked towards Lyla with a jerk of the head. "I'm sorry," He muttered before shoving from the table and rising, leaving with his cloak of gold swirling after him.

Myrcella and Tommen rose after their brother, and each pecked Lyla's cheek, making her grin toothily before she watched them retreat to their mother and kiss her cheeks too and leave with a maid following suit.

Cersei looked utterly shocked and upset that her younger children showed such a display of affection towards the woman they knew for little more than three moons turned, green eyes burning into wildfire as they landed on Lyla. Lyla, however, obliviously went on to nibble at her spiced cake dessert as though it never happened. _A smart move_, Jaime thought.

"Now that we're alone, I believe we should get down to the business of things," Tywin said, looking around the table.

Lyla looked up at his father and raised a brow, "Business? I never thought of marriage as business."

"Then you clearly haven't spent enough time in the South," Tywin said simply.

The northern girl seemed to want to be shocked, but wasn't as she nodded slowly, looking to Jaime for a split second before her pools-of-spring-water eyes swung back to Tywin. "Anyways, I'm sure you heard from Cersei that I'm wanting grandchildren."

Jaime folded his arms across his chest and sat back. "A few children in a couple of years is only natural," He shrugged, looking to Lyla, who seemed just as relaxed as Cersei was on the subject.

In any case, Cersei was anything _but_ relaxed. "How many did you have in mind?" She asked their father, voice straining.

Just as Tywin began answering, Jaime felt a hand sliding across his thigh and shuddered at the contact, but shoved his twin's hand away. "…At least. That's only reasonable."

"Three is fair…" Lyla gripped the arms of the chairs roughly until her knuckles looked like snow-capped mountains and she seemed to force her hands from the arms, folding them in her lap. _Three children_? That hardly seemed the business Tywin wanted to speak of. Jaime raised a brow at her and she pursed her lips just as the hand tickled its way back onto his thigh, higher and closer to his groin that time.

"I also wanted to discuss the move to Casterly Rock," Said Tywin, who's eyes were on Lyla. _He's studying her,_ Jaime observed as he grabbed the hand in the nick of time, forcefully shoving it away once more. "I feel it would be easiest for you two, trying to conceive as you will be, to get the travel done early so that you don't have a pregnant highborn Lady riding out with you or a babe crying and attracting raiders."

Lyla and Jaime both nodded, understanding, and Cersei's voice crawled back into the room, shaking slightly. "They should stay here, father. Raise the child in King's Landing where she or he will become savvy enough to survive this game of thrones."

"I'm not raising my child here," Lyla said adamantly, folding her arms forcefully.

"No, we're not," Jaime agreed, reaching a hand across the table to meet his betrothed's, stroking her knuckles with his thumb for a moment before recoiling his arm.

Tywin raised a brow, "I am your Lord," He said, "And should I say you go-"

"Lord Tywin, with all due respect, Jaime and I are grown and old enough to raise our child the way we feel fit, as you have. If we chose not to raise our babes here, we mean not to. I would do anything to protect my children, as you do." Lyla held eye contact with his father the whole time, jaw squared and clenched, head held high.

Jaime smiled and nodded to her and his father both, and he could feel Cersei shaking from where the arms of their chairs met. "I must agree father," He said.

Tywin laughed as much as the dark Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock could and shook his head, "I feared marrying you to a northern woman, Jaime," He said, "too stubborn for their own good. Very well, we'll see that you don't raise your children here in King's Landing, Lady Stark."

"Please, Lord Tywin, every time I hear Lady Stark I look around for my mother. Just Lyla is fine."

There was a mutual look of understanding between Lyla and Tywin, and Jaime was fascinated with his father's near uncharacteristic reactions- but it only proved his theory correct. Everyone who met Lyla fell under her charms.

"I believe there is little to discuss," disclosed Lyla, "Jaime and I will leave for Casterly Rock at our leisure, but no later than three moons from now. The wedding is set for the day after tomorrow, and we all need rest, I think."

Cersei nodded in absent minded agreement, already rising, Tywin and Jaime following. "I must see to the children before they're sent to bed," Cersei said before bowing to her father and leaving in a swirl of Baratheon skirts, hair flowing just as any cape would.

Lyla nodded, "Sansa is staying in my room still and she'll begin to wonder about where I've been kidnapped to," She moved to Jaime and kissed his cheek, then embrace Tywin, "I should hope to see you soon, my lord. Goodnight, boys." She called over her shoulder as she left, a maid scurrying to escort her to her chambers safely.

Jaime was about to follow suit when Tywin caught his arm, "She's a good woman, Jaime, I can see that already. Don't let her slip away."

The Lion of Lannister smirked, prepared for that question as he had been for no other, "I couldn't if I tried."

_*Hello doves! This is the longest chapter I've written for this FF to date, and I have to say, I'm pretty proud of it. I worked straight into the morning writing this, so I hope you all enjoy and I hope I kept all in character/lived up to the expectations! Not a long AN because it's 1 AM here, but enjoy and have a splendid day!_


	17. Chapter 17

The fresh air was alarmingly cool, for being so far South. The sunrise had taken place only an hour ago, though nobody could tell through the thick clouds that had gathered in the otherwise lovely lavender morning sky. It was still early, yet that didn't stop nearly all the young ladies of court from barging into Lyla's room and waking her before she'd even had a chance to dream.

"Seven devils," Lyla muttered under her breath as she was slowly shaken awake. As her eyes adjusted to the women surrounding her, she raised a brow and pulled her furs closer to her. They were familiar of face, their names tickling at her memory.

Lady Alys Frey, wife of her cousin Jared Frey, was standing furthest to her left; her pale flaxen waves covering part of her round face, dark coal eyes sincere as she smiled. Beside her was Lady Karyn Mallister, with her fathers brown curls and bubbly bright eyes, chiseled face grinning. Then came the golden Princess Myrcella herself, and beside her were Sansa and Lady Jesenna Cressey, a girl of fourteen with a pretty heart shaped face and lovely rich yellow locks that fell past her elbows. To her side was the Lady Jillian Peasebury, a pale, thin girl with dark hair and eyes as grey-green as her namesake. Nearing the end of the row of ladies was Lady Berissa Estren; tall with a thick body and short pale blonde hair, light blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight that still flickered in Lyla's chambers. Last of all was Lady Evelyn Ambrose, at an age with Lyla being fifteen nearly sixteen, a girl that the eldest Stark daughter had played with during her stay at Highgarden with Margaery Tyrell. Evelyn was a lovely girl; her hair was long and thick, falling into soft black curls. Her eyes were chestnut, she had an upturned nose, and her shell-pink lips were cast in a delicious smirk.

The immediate thought that came to Lyla's mind was if she'd done wrong in any way; and then she remembered that her wedding was tomorrow. It was a southern tradition- or so Septa had told her the previous day as they broke their fasts with the girls and, to everyone's delightful surprise, Eddard- that the ladies in court closest to the bride were to give her a 'shower' of sorts; parade her around and give her presents and spend the day with her as though it were her last day alive. _An interesting tradition_, thought Lyla, _for mother always told me that life began the day one was wed_. Then again, not all were so lucky as Lyla, marrying a man they could stand at the least, let alone find themselves fond of.

Yes, it was growing more and more apparent to Lyla that her feelings for Jaime were beyond just a simple _fondness_. She recalled the previous day; how he'd gotten on one knee and asked her, truly asked her, for her hand. And the kiss- it was the most carefree she'd ever been, and she was the Wildling of Winterfell.

"Lyla, come, get up. We haven't all day," It was Evelyn who spoke, chestnut eyes direct. On the opposite side of her, Lady Alys Frey nodded, "We have to get going, dear."

"We planned everything. There's going to be lemoncakes and tea," Said Sansa, who looked radiant with her brushed ruby curls and silver-grey gown. Myrcella, dressed in velvets of gold and emerald, grinned wildly. "We've haven't any time to lose, _Aunt_ Lyla."

"Haven't we?" Lyla raised a brow and grinned slightly, sitting up and rubbing her eyes with her fists, stretching her arms out and rolling her neck. "And where is it that we're going, Cella?"

The princess looked to Sansa, and then around at all the ladies, pursing her lips as if to keep herself quiet. Rather than forcing the princess to suffer from the desire to speak, Jillian Peasebury's voice came though. It was quiet, near a whisper; poor thing sounded as weak as she looked, though her beauty prevailed indefinitely. "It would be terrible luck to tell you, my lady. Secrets must stay secrets."

"Indeed," Came the voice of Berissa Estren; light and wispy in contrast to her tall, thick, short haired demeanor. She gave a small nod towards the wardrobe and Jesenna swung the doors open. A plethora of crimson and gold silks dripped from the open doors, swaying in the gentle breeze that swept through the open windows and into the room.

The order Cersei had placed for Lyla arrived the day before, and per the Stark daughter's thoughts, they were near all Lannister of color-such as the one she'd worn the previous day-, with a generous three of Stark white and grey. Refreshingly, though, there were at least ten of lavender, soft pink, yellow, green, and many more- even that of Tully red and blue.

Sansa and Alys flocked to the wardrobe, debating over the velvet gown of cream with the ruby trim or the one of maroon with the gold-dyed myrish lace embroidery and bodice. Myrcella skipped to it not long after with the lovely Karyn Mallister as Evelyn and Berissa searched her vanity for matching hair ribbons for the long silken gown of deep violet that the princess had pulled. Lyla was only glad she did not have to wear Lannister colors the last day before she would be chained to them for life.

"Can you at least give me any hints?" She asked them, still watching as they fluttered about her room like butterflies. Karyn Mallister turned her head and grinned wickedly, stating that there were no pleasures in spoiling ones own surprises.

Muttering all things unintelligible, Lyla rolled from her four-post feather bed- which was far too comfortable for her tastes otherwise she might have slept in it for months at a time- stretching her legs and curling her toes over the fur rugs that surrounded her bed. Alys and Sansa helped her dress into the violet gown, and Berissa helped Evelyn brush and braid silver and black ribbons into her hair, wrapping a black velvet ribbon around her mid section.

After ridiculous amounts of their pampering and primping, the court ladies gave Lyla a moment to herself as they rushed from the room, giving no word, though she could only assume they were leaving to ready her first gift. No sooner had they gone, a quiet knock sounded at her door.

"Buggering hells," She groaned, dearly wishing that they'd not all flocked back so soon. She'd enjoyed their company, but she simply wished to be alone for a moment. Still yet, she found herself calling, "Come in," from where she stood on her balcony, facing the city.

The sky was still dark, darker than earlier, and the cool breeze might have been the only thing to keep her from ripping the silks from her bare skin, the heat still terribly unbearable. The feeling of calloused fingers tasting at her shoulders made Lyla jump, but she had no time to turn before arms were wrapped around her and gentle lips were pressed to the back of her neck.

"Do I scare you so, sweet girl?" Came Jaime's rasping voice, and Lyla rolled her eyes, leaning into his embrace.

"Is it not bad luck to see a bride before the wedding, Jaime?" She mused, turning in his arms to face him. He looked tired, as though he had a nightmare and couldn't sleep- for the second time in a row that week. "Are you well?" She asked, raising a brow.

He simply sighed and leaned down, burying his face into the crook of her neck. "Mayhaps I simply don't sleep well without you," He tried, kissing her just below her ear, then lower and lower and lower. She only stopped him when he reached just above her chest, whispering a "No,".

"And why not? We're to be married on the morrow, my sweet," He moaned into her skin, inhaling the scent of her, kissing back up her neck until he reached her lips. When he claimed them, Lyla did nothing but kiss him back, letting him hold her and mold her to his body. He seemed to crave the comfort of her, even stopped kissing her just to keep her there, which was when she took his hands in hers and pulled them from her.

"Jaime, you're not well. Come," She said, tone of voice quiet and calm. She led him inside and sat him on the bed, running her fingers through his golden sunshine hair. "What troubles you?" She asked him, worried.

He looked up, into her eyes, and then back down at his twiddling thumbs- until she covered them with her hand, that is. It was a long pause again until he spoke. "I had a dream. I've had it twice now," He whispered, intertwining his fingers with hers. "It's the morning and it's so bright- summer still, surely. And I'm in bed... Oh this is silly, can't we just forget about this?"

"No," Lyla said adamantly, shaking her head. It was clear that the dream, no matter how silly he thought it, was affecting him. "Jaime, if we're to be married on the morrow as you said, I want to make sure you're happy with it. Is this about second thoughts?" She would understand the hesitation- they were so opposite. She was of the North, he the South. She was short and pale and winterborn, whereas he was tall and sunkissed and a summer child. All besides the fact that they were still fresh to each other; unknown.

However, Jaime seemed shocked and slightly hurt at her assumption, "Of course not." He said, "Are _you_ having second thoughts?"

"Jaime, no," She murmured, giving him a small smile, "Of course not." In fact, now more than ever she felt the _want_ to be his wife. He seemed a better match for her than even the gentle, calm Willas would ever be, and he understood her like her father did. "Please, I fear we've limited time before the ladies of court come back to steal me away- tell me about the dream."

Jaime studied her face for a moment and gave her a tight smile, resting his hand on the nape of her neck. "Every morning I wake up to this incredible beauty beside me, sleeping away like a babe. I try and wake her; I seem to know who she is in my dream, but it frightens me every time..."

"What frightens you, Jaime?" Lyla was resting her head on his shoulder then, having wrapped her arms around him and cuddling close. His left arm was slung over her shoulders and the right across her lap.

"The blood," He said slowly. "When I roll her over- when I roll _you_ over, you're covered with blood. Down below... It's like you've given birth, but there is no babe. You call me over but when I touch you, you melt like I'm made of acid..."

To quell his fears, Lyla lifted one of his hands and pressed it to her cheek, glad that he truly wasn't made of acid. "I'm here," She whispered to him, flashing a smile. "Don't worry, I won't leave. I certainly won't die in childbed- can't very well let you raise a babe on your own, can I?"

That earned her a halfhearted chuckle and she kissed his cheek, "Once I make a commitment, Lyla, I mean it," He murmured into her hair, "And I firmly intend on committing to you."

He wrapped his hands around the back of her head and made to pull her in for a kiss, but she was already on him, knocking them both onto the bed. They laughed into each others mouths and Jaime moaned as she straddled him, Lyla fisting into his sapphire cloak and leaning closer into his lips.

He tasted so sweet; that familiar sugary flavor still lingering. Lyla's mind raced as he bunched up her dress from the skirt, rubbing his hands up and down her cloth-covered legs- he was so comforting and so true, so much of what she would have wanted in a man she would have chosen herself. Jaime was what she wanted- her throat rippled a moan as his fingers touched the bare skin on her calves- and he was exactly what she needed. Her emotions were on haywire, torturing her. She felt what she was scared to feel, and the voice in her head whispered it to her. _You love him_.

_No_! She wanted to shout back. She didn't love him; liking Jaime was far from loving him, wasn't it? Jaime moved his hands to her bodice and cupped where her breasts were, making him groan again as she moved her hips in response. She didn't know what to think anymore, so she simply stopped thinking, letting her body overrun her mind.

The door burst open and Lyla instinctively rolled off of him. Jaime shot up, running his hands through his hair and smoothing down his doublet, sliding from the bed and turning to look back out the balcony. "_Jaime Lannister_!" Came a mixture of feminine voices, all shocked and a few quizzical.

"It's bad luck to see a bride before the wedding!" Jesenna and Jillian gasped in tandem, just as Evelyn and Karyn exchanged scandalous grins.

Jaime turned and gave the girls all a sympathetic smile, "Apologies, ladies. I just thought I'd bring my bride a gift." He fished in the pocket of his doublet and Lyla raised a brow, pulling her knees to her chin and tilting her head.

"What gift?" She asked, wrapping her arms around her legs. She'd have felt any "present" when she was atop of him, wouldn't she? Jaime only smiled as his clenched fist left his pocket, a silver chain dangling from it and catching the light.

Lyla's eyes went wide as his palm bloomed open. In the center of his hand lay an oval locket slung on a thin silver chain. She lifted her legs and slid from the bed, fingering the dainty chain. "Jaime, it's beautiful," She breathed. As she lifted the locket, could see that there was a rose imprinted on the back of it and the hinges were designed to look like vines.

"Open it," He murmured to her, and she didn't have to look up to tell he was pleased with her reaction; she could hear it in his voice.

When she opened it, she felt her eyes prickle with tears. Inside the locket were two small portraits of her father and mother, Eddard and Catelyn Stark. They were brand new, clearly, and so beautifully done- they must have cost a fortune. _Nothing is expensive for a Lannister_, she reminded herself. Still, she wasn't raised with as much gold as Jaime was, and the extravagance of the gift was too much. "Jaime, I can't accept this," She said, looking up into his big green eyes.

He shook his head softly, "Nonsense. Aren't you familiar with your own customs, little wolf of mine? In the North-"

"In the North, it is custom for a man give his betrothed a piece of silver jewelry." She finished, watching as Jaime lifted the chain and unclasped it. She turned, already knowing what he was going to ask of her, and relished in the feel of the cool metal on her bare flesh, admiring it from where it fell right above her breasts as he clasped it once more around her neck. It was truly beautiful. "That's an ancient tradition though Jaime, it hasn't been practiced in the North for a long time. Where did you even get these?" She asked, opening the locket and admiring the portraits again.

"I commissioned them after we left Winterfell," He said, the back of his hand caressing the bare skin of her neck.

On the other side of the room one of the ladies coughed and Lyla felt her cheeks grow hot. As she toyed with the locket she caught eyes with Sansa and grinned, beckoning her over. Her younger sister hurried across the room and smiled brightly, expression astonished as she looked at the portraits, finger tracing over their mother's face. "I miss her," Sansa whispered.

Lyla pursed her lips. Sansa had been closer to Catelyn than either she or Arya, who was at her dancing lesson, and the move away from their mother was hardest on her. "I know," She whispered back, kissing the top of Sansa's head, "I do too." And she did; Catelyn was her mother despite it all.

"Well," Came Evelyn's bright, clear voice, "I think that's enough of the bridegroom for one day, don't you girls?" The other ladies all nodded and Jaime laughed, intertwining his fingers through hers and lifting her hand to kiss the back of it.

"I agree; you'll have her the rest of your life, Jaime, it's no fair you take her today as well," Karyn Mallister grinned, and winked to Lyla, who was still blushing. "Come on, Lyla, your first surprise is ready."

* * *

The streets of King's Landing were crowded and it smelled of filth, and as Lyla followed the ladies of court on horseback through the cobble-paved roads she couldn't help but miss Winterfell. She toyed with her locket in one hand, remembering the times when her family was together, running through the clean streets that always smelled of the cook's fresh baking.

"Where are we headed to?" She asked them, but none spoke, not even Myrcella- though she looked about ready to burst with excitement. "We've been riding for half an hour," She moaned, rubbing her stallion's neck softly, "Morrow's too fat for this. I haven't been conditioning him like I should."

Alys Frey slowed her buttercream mare, whose flaxen mane matched the Frey's own soft waves. "Don't worry about him getting a sprain or something getting pulled, the stable boys work the horses at least once a week. I'm sure Morrow is well taken care of."

As if he understood her, Morrow whinnied and Lyla laughed. "He's beautiful," Alys admired. "Where ever did you find him?"

Lyla ran her hand through Morrow's thick black mane and smiled thoughtfully, remembering. "Lord Willas Tyrell gave Morrow to me as a nameday gift when I turned six. I was to marry him when I was younger, before his accident anyways."

It was like any other tourney Willas had ridden in; he was ridding well and had unhorsed every competitor he'd come across. But then the Red Viper had come along and unseated him, causing his horse to fall on his leg and crush it, rendering it useless.

She could still remember how grief stricken she was upon hearing about Willas' accident- crying with Lady Alerie, holding onto Margaery and Loras and begging to see him as soon as he returned, but he would see nobody for weeks. Back then, Willas was more than just a possible betrothal, he was one of her closest and dearest friends. She could still smell the blood in the air after Maester Lomys bled Willas' leg. "It's nothing, sweet girl," Willas had tried to reassure her, "I'll be walking by morning."

But he hadn't been walking by morning- in fact, it took Willas nearly a year to get back on his feet, and even so he needed a leg brace and a walking stick, though he used his wheelchair most often. She could recall sitting on his lap and riding with him as he rolled around Highgarden, but having to sit on his good leg so not to pain him.

"It is a tragedy, isn't it... He was so talented, or so Jared tells me," Alys commented, reaching her hand over and holding Lyla's.

Lyla nodded softly, "How is it that you met your lord husband, Lady Alys?" She asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

Alys' gentle smile faded and she looked down, taking her hand back. "Jared and I met on our wedding day. I was so scared, you see, and Jared was so vain... We were so young... He isn't who I thought he would be." Her smile grew back when she looked over and saw the near frightened expression plastered on Lyla's face. "Oh don't worry dear, it's not like that. He's very good to me, it just took time. Patience. My mother told me love comes in time."

"My mother said as much," Lyla agreed. The ladies all turned around the bend and Lyla could faintly see the sign for a seamstress' shop. "Are we here to look at my wedding gown?" She looked over to Alys suspiciously and ahead of them she could hear laughter.

"Took you long enough to figure that out!" Evelyn called from over her shoulder, and beside her Myrcella and Berissa Estren were giggling. "Only an hour," Karyn jested, winking.

The seamstress' shop was beautiful. There were Dornish velvets, Myrish laces, even expensive sandsilks from across the Narrow Sea, where Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen were rumored to live. There were manikins dotting the shop and in the very center of it all stood a tiny old woman with long silver hair and interestingly bright eyes of copper. "You must be the bride," She said with a strong, entitled voice, copper eyes on Lyla.

"I am," She replied, smiling.

"Well, follow me my dear. Your dress is already behind the changing screen and waiting for you." Lyla nodded and followed alone, while the ladies all waited for her. Jillian Peasebury had to hold both Sansa and Myrcella's hands to calm them.

The changing screen was large and beautifully painted, with cherry blossoms and nightshade flowers tickling it; Lyla reached her hand out, fingertips gracing the delicate wood. As the old woman led her behind the screen, Lyla's initial reaction was a gasp.

The gown was ivory satin, lined with silver and freshwater pearls. The bodice was trimmed with delicate lace and the dagged sleeves touched the ground. Sunlight broke through the clouds and shined on it, the beautiful fabric of the skirt and sleeves glittering like a million diamonds. "Oh gods, it's beautiful," Lyla murmured.

The old woman smiled crookedly and nodded, "Most expensive gown I ever made; excluding the Queen Cersei's wedding gown anyways. Come on, lets get you dressed." She stepped onto a stool and pulled the gown from the hanger, waiting until Lyla had slipped from her silken violet dress to pull the bridal gown over her head.

When she was laced up, the woman grinned. "My best work yet," She said proudly before leading Lyla back out from behind the screen.

"Holy shit!" Evelyn squealed just as Myrcella and Sansa giggled, "You look beautiful!"

Berissa and Jesenna gossiped about how lovely she looked in it and Jillian and Alys grinned with Karyn Mallister, staring in silent awe. Lyla was just about to turn to look into the looking glass that the old woman put behind her when she felt hands on her shoulders, clasping something there. "What in the... _Loras_!"

As soon as she caught sight of the lavish emerald and gold cloth she knew it had to be a Tyrell, and she was overjoyed to find Ser Loras standing behind her, smoothing down a cloak of silver with an ivory direwolf in the center and pearls embroidering it. "Every maiden needs a maiden's cloak," He said softly, grinning that charming Tyrell grin.

She threw her arms around him and he lifted her, twirling her around in circles. "I haven't seen you since I was a girl, Loras, oh I've missed you!"

"Surprise number two," Karyn explained. "Evelyn sent him a raven and he came as soon as he could."

Evelyn was grinning, her chestnut eyes glinting in the light. "Brilliant, aren't I?"

"Wonderful," Lyla smirked and released Loras only long enough to give Evelyn a light hug before embracing him again. "Where is Margaery? You two are never apart."

Loras brushed hair from her face- the few pieces that fell from her plait- and smiled darkly. "She's with Willas while Garlan is away with Leonette. I'm to report back to her _everything_; down to the last decal on the dinner plates."

"You may want to take notes then, the Queen has ordered forty courses," Jesenna Cressey said, who looked up at Loras with her lovely chocolate eyes. Loras' own honey eyes were on Lyla though.

"Look at you," He said more light heartedly. "You look like a bride if I've ever seen one. Lannister is a lucky, lucky man."

Lyla smiled and swatted his shoulder, "Not quite so. I'd be horrified if I were him- being shackled to me might be the worst thing that'll ever happen to him. Where ever did you get this cloak?"

"That's surprise number three," Alys said softly, "We've all pitched in and made it for you. It took us a week." Jillian nodded, "Sansa sewed the direwolf."

Sansa blushed when all eyes fell on her, twinkling eyes meeting Loras' honey gold through her lashes for a moment before switching to her sister's matching bright blue. "Myrcella added most of the pearls," She said modestly.

"It was nothing, really." Myrcella chirped, blushing prettily, golden curls tumbling past her shoulders as she bowed her head. "Miss Jennesen, may we see the veil on her?" She asked the old woman, who smiled and nodded.

The veil was a very delicate, cloth of silver, see-through but just barely. There were silver chains that fell over it like rain with pearls attached to the bottoms of them like dewdrops. "You'll be the bride of the century," Berissa praised in tandem with Jesenna. Jillian and Sansa nodded and Karyn and Alys squealed excitedly. Myrcella chirped about her looking like a snowflake, and Loras smirked. "Befitting for a northern bride to bring winter to the South." He said.

The door of the shop opened and Carinya strolled in. "Sorry I'm late," She said grinning, "I had something to fetch." She tugged on a leash and Lyla yipped in excitement to see her direwolf freshly washed with a large bright white ribbon tied around her neck. She'd been kept with Lady and Nymeria as of late- Jory Cassel had been training them to obey certain commands such as _Sit, Stay, Retrieve, Return_, and Lyla had even heard him teaching them _Home_, at which they would run back to the Tower of the Hand.

Rose padded into the store and Lyla noticed the glint around the ribbon and knelt down to pull a roll of parchment from around her neck. "What's this?" She asked, looking up at Carinya, who only shrugged, smirking. She opened it.

_Lyla,  
We miss you in Winterfell. Your laughter, your songs, your jests. You are our sister forever more, a daughter of the North and a Stark forever. She prays for you, he cries for you, we all love you. All my best wishes for you on your wedding day and all of my affection,  
Robb_

Lyla felt her eyes prickle with tears for the second time that day as she read the letter over and over. Her mother prayed for her, Rickon cried for her, and life sounded so bland there without her, or at least that was how Robb worded it. She hadn't gotten word from Winterfell till then, though she'd written to both Robb and Theon. She was about to stand back up when she noticed another note.

_Sweetest sister,_  
_I miss you and the girls sorely. Father as well. I hope your wedding is full of joy and that you are as happy as I want you to be. You all have my greatest love._  
_Jon_

The tears fell then, and Lyla thought that those letters were the greatest surprise and gift she could have ever received. She missed her family so much, and to hear from them made her swell with happiness. "Oh thank you," She sobbed, pulling Carinya in for a long, warm hug. "Thank you so much."

"It was no trouble, my lady," Carinya insisted, smiling as she was pulled from the hug. "Anything for you is a pleasure."

The rest of the day was spent with pampering and primping and eating every decedent treat that the kitchen cooks sent out; cherries, plum cookies, lemoncakes, and Lyla's favorite, apple tarts. It was her last day as a Stark and one of the most pleasant she'd experienced. Her father had even shown up to have lunch with her, Loras, and all the ladies, where Loras had been persuaded to enlist in the tourney that was to come after the wedding.

She lay in bed now, at midnight with the onyx sky and twinkling stars above her from where she and Sansa and Myrcella had the bed moved to the balcony so that the wedding dress could fit in her chamber. Myrcella had fallen asleep hours ago, but she and Sansa lay awake, talking.

"Do you think he'll learn to love me?" Lyla whispered to her sweet sister, who lay on the other side of the bed, Myrcella between them.

Sansa lifted her head slightly so Lyla could see it and smiled warmly, sleep drowning her blue irises. "Don't be silly, Lyla. Everyone loves you. He'd be a fool not to."

Lyla heard shuffling and sat up to peer into the room. Alys, Berissa, Jesenna, Jillian, Karyn, and Evelyn all slept on small cots in her room, for after their busy, bustling day everyone was far too tired to return to their own chambers, which were sporadically placed around the Red Keep. She lay back down though, when she realized it was only Rose nuzzling closer to the kindling fire.

"I'm nervous, Sansa," Lyla whispered.

"Don't be. You'll forever be my sister and father's daughter and Arya's sister too. You'll always be a Stark, you needn't worry." Sansa whispered back.

Myrcella stirred and her emerald eyes fluttered open for a moment as she looked for Lyla, snuggling closer to her. "Goodnight, Aunt Lyla," She hummed, wrapping her arms around the Stark girl's waist.

"Goodnight sweet princess," She murmured, kissing the girl's forehead. "Goodnight, Sansa," She said to her sister, who had begun to snore softly.

On the morrow she'd be a married woman, but for now, she could dream easy. Of Winterfell, of home with the boys, wrestling with Theon and shooting arrows with Robb. _Soon_, she thought groggily, _we'll all be together soon_. And then her mind slowed and sleep finally came.

_*Hey guys! I know, I know- I haven't updated in nearly two weeks, but life just hasn't been agreeing with me. Things should be turning up again soon though, or at least I hope._  
_Anyways, a bit of a longer chapter to hopefully appease you, with some romance and emotions, etc. Next chapter is the wedding! Ah, I'm so excited. (sorry for the lame ending with this chapter, by the way.)_  
_Hope you all enjoyed, and have a beautiful rest of your weekend. :)_


	18. Chapter 18

Lyla woke up to the summer sunshine beating down on her face, warming her and making her skin boil. "Bloody hells," She hissed, rolling off of the bed in her haste to get into the shade and falling onto the marble floor of her balcony. "_Ow_..." She moaned.

"Finally you're awake!" Came a bright, bubbly voice, and she scrambled to sit up, shoving hair from her face and looking into the a pair of bright sapphire eyes. "What are you doing on the floor, silly, get up!" Karyn Mallister pulled her from the ground with the help of Berissa Estren, who stood behind her. They were all freshly washed and dressed in clean gowns- how long had she been asleep?

"What time is it?" Lyla asked groggily, rubbing sleep from her eyes. In the South it was a marital tradition to hold a breakfast feast before one's wedding, and it would be a terrible imposition to miss it.

"Don't worry, dearest, you haven't missed the morning feast. It's still early, only seven," Alys Frey said from inside, where she had pulled a nice copper tub into the main room and was filling it with scents and soaps and Jesenna placing creams beside it.

Myrcella and Sansa were brushing their hair with brushes that Lyla didn't recognize as hers and Evelyn lounged on her cot, toying with some of the freshwater pearl tassels that hung from her silver veil. "Hurry up and undress, Lyla, we haven't time to lose." Said Evelyn, who had an ultimately bored expression clouding her eyes as she looked up from the pearls.

Sensing that most of the girls had a headache from the amounts of wine they all drank last night, Lyla wasted no time dilly dallying, slipping from her undergarments and sliding into the tub with help from Berissa, who was the strongest and least hungover- aside from Myrcella and Sansa, who only had fruit juice last night at Lyla's insistence.

The water smelled unfamiliar to Lyla and she frowned. "Where is my rosewater?" She asked, sinking further into the water. It was the scent of honey and almonds, and while not unpleasant, it was terribly different. "Jaime won't like this," She said quietly, more to herself than to the girls.

"Your rosewater was sent to Jaime's chamber about an hour ago. This is all we had down here, but isn't it just lovely? I might just prefer it." Said Jillian, just as Karyn said, "Bugger Jaime, he'll have his rosewater back by tomorrow morning."

Alys just sighed and continued scrubbing Lyla's skin until it blazed bright pink, Jesenna scraping her pores clean of all filth and splashing her face with cold water before her hair was lathered in heavily honey scented soap. She wrinkled her nose and begged them to rise it out, "It smells sweet enough to put me in a coma," Jillian quietly agreed, and Lyla's spirits fell at the remembrance of Bran, unconscious in Winterfell with useless legs, pale and frail and sick. _My poor, gentle brother_, she thought solemnly.

"I'm sorry," Jillian said at once. "I did not realize-"

"Really, it's no troubles Jillian." Lyla said softly, smiling up at her friend. "Can't let myself be sad today anyways; it _is_ my wedding day after all." The girls all hummed their agreement and Lyla felt thankful that Jesenna had begun rinsing the honey scent out of her hair.

Sansa strode across the room with Lady and Rose at her sides, Myrcella eagerly teetering after her. They both sat on plush chairs beside the fire, leaving one open between them for Lyla, who sat in it eagerly after she'd been towel dried, soaking up the heat. Though she was of the North and winterborn, the chills of stepping out of a piping hot bath were so much different than that of winter winds. She brushed her own hair as the girls twiddled about and pulled gowns from her wardrobe, all Lannister of course, as would only be befit.

As soon as her hair had dried fully, the girls slipped her into golden smallclothes and shimmied her into a velvet gown of crimson with a golden sash, her silver locket nestled between her breasts. They pinned her hair into a pile of tight braids and curls that looked remotely tame, and put a golden lion pin with rubies for eyes in the center of it all.

"I look like I have a cabbage on my head," Lyla muttered thoughtlessly, tugging at one of the ringlets.

Evelyn sat up fully and set the veil beside her, "Oh gods." She said. She tried desperately to stifle her laughter, but just couldn't stop. "You look awful!"

Alys began laughing too, and then Karyn and Berissa, leaving Jesenna and Jillian looking rather upset. "It's not too terrible, surely?" Jesenna questioned, pursing her lips, rich yellow curls framing her heart shaped face perfectly as she looked down.

Lyla so desperately wanted to be honest, tell the girls that she'd rather her hair be down, but Jillian's eyes fell downcast and instead, she sighed. "It looks lovely, girls. I adore cabbage." She said. _I've gone soft_, realized the girl who was once called a Wildling,_ I've gone as soft as summer grass_.

The pretty, pale faced girl with grey-green eyes grinned toothily, "Oh I just knew you'd like it." She said in that wispy, gentle voice of hers.

Karyn leaned against a looking glass and shook her head, eyes glinting with humor. "You do look lovely with your hair down. Shame." She whispered, and Lyla froze in her plush velvet arm-chair. _Shame_; the same word that Petyr Baelish had uttered only days ago, after he'd caught she and Jaime saying their breathless goodbyes. She forced herself not to raise a brow, not to act suspicious. If Karyn Mallister was a spy for Lord Baelish, she'd go on leaving her be- Lyla Stark had nothing to hide.

"Are you troubled, dear?" Evelyn asked, ripping Lyla from her thoughts.

She looked to her friend, flashing a lazy smile. "I'm fine, you needn't worry."

"Well good," Evelyn said, bored as she stood and smoothed down her dress of buttercream. "Because we don't have time to delay any longer. Let's go, ladies, we haven't all day to pamper the bride; there is a feast to attend to."

* * *

The hall looked a mess of blood and sunshine.

Golden floors were polished until they shone bright, glittering like the stars. Cream lions adorned heavy, luxurious ruby velvets, which were hung carefully along each wall. Drapes of honey colored cloth swayed as the open windows allowed air to whisk into the hall, a pleasant change from the humidity that rose with having over two hundred men, women, and children in one room all at the same time.

The gilded, dark stained cherry oak furniture looked stunning against the ruby tapestries with golden filigree stitch work and tassels, refurbished with plush, soft, gorgeous velvets of crimson and buttercream with subtle lions sewn into each cushion, arm rest, and even the cloth napkins.

Crystal eyes scanned the crowd and fell upon the Stark family, or what was available of them in King's Landing, anyhow. Sansa sat beside Eddard, Arya at her other side with Jory, and Loras Tyrell across the table from them, for he was near family after so many years.

Desperately, Lyla Stark wanted to sit with her family at the table just below the dais, where she even noticed the King Robert Baratheon himself swaggering to, the little ones Myrcella and Tommen following him. Cersei wasn't far from him, though sat at the table across from the Starks, with Joffrey in tow. The table was full to the brim of golden haired beauties; Cersei, Joffrey, Tywin and his sister Gemma, Kevan their brother, his little wife, and even Lancel, who looked at Lyla with scorching Wildfire green eyes.

As if on cue, all eyes fell on Lyla then, and she wished that it weren't tradition to sit with ones betrothed alone together on the dais. She was comfortable with Jaime, yet she still wanted to run- she was a runner, always was and always would be. She ran from her worries, her frights, and now she wanted to run from her nerves. Slowly, she began to take steps back, fighting the urge to tug at one of the curls that Jillian and Jesenna had piled atop her head to quell her hurried breath.

The ladies of court were gone, dispersed by then to sit at their tables and chirp away like the charming birds they were, and there was nothing to stop Lyla from turning on her heel and sprinting into the Kingswood in search of a heart tree she knew she would never find so deep buried in the South. Just as she was about to turn, however, a voice whispered her name and she jumped, focusing her nerve-blurred vision onto the face of none other than he.

"Surely you're not going to run out on me? I've so been looking forward to today," Jaime murmured to her, reaching for her hand. She readily accepted, just as much as she accepted his soft lips on her forehead, warmed from all the thoughts swarming her mind.

He looked dazzling in his golden doublet and flowing crimson cape, nearly the opposite to Lyla's ruby gown with sash of cream around her thin waist. His sunshine hair was brushed through, clearly, and he was fresh bathed. _He smells of my rosewater_, she mused, taking comfort in that fact.

As if he read her mind, Jaime smiled into her hair, "The small vile of rosewater you sent... I decided today would be the day to use it... Oh gods," He wrinkled his nose as he cursed and sneezed. "Whatever those ladies of yours have been doing to _your_ bathwater is awful!"

She frowned. She already knew it smelled terrible- she hated almonds. "It's honey almonds," She said softly as she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and he slowly coaxed her through the hall, staying close despite his clear disapproval of the soap she'd been scrubbed with and her hair had been lathered with.

"I hate it," Jaime groaned, leading her down the long stretch, giving polite, tight-lipped smiles to the strangers that surrounded them.

Lyla nodded, "As do I." She said, waving softly to the table where her family, Loras, Robert, and the young royals sat, the King surprisingly sober as he watched her intently, smiling somberly. She knew it wasn't because he was sad to see her married, as was the cause of Ned's sullen smile, but because he looked at her and saw her aunt; Lyanna. Where she once thought _the poor Queen_, Lyla now found herself thinking _the poor King_.

When they reached the dais, Jaime pulled her chair out for her and then slid it back in with ease, taking a seat beside her. He smelled so familiar and sweet that she found herself leaning her head on his shoulder, burying her nose in his doublet to catch the scent. "I miss this smell. I've worn it my whole life," She murmured. To Lyla, it was simply a comfort to no end, but to the guests of the breakfast feast it would just look like affection between lovers.

"And will for the rest of it I hope. I can't stand almonds," Jaime muttered, and Lyla silently thanked him for allowing her to remain within a close proximity though the smell clearly tortured him. Mayhaps he truly hated almonds, like she, though Lyla thought perhaps he'd fallen for her scent of rosewater and would hate any other on her regardless. She hoped for the latter, turning so her head once again faced the crowd and the side of her face rested on him.

Servants poured glasses of three wines; Arbor white, Dornish red, and a honey crisp from beyond the Narrow sea. Sitting back upright, Lyla lifted the honey crisp first, sniffing it. The scent was of its namesake, smelling of diluted honey, with a lingering hint of crisp, ripe apples. Looking to Jaime, he winked and tipped a glass of Dornish red back before setting to stealing bites of the eggs placed before him; all cooked until it turned white with the yolk running as he broke it open with a slice of toasted wheat bread.

Lyla shrugged, enjoying the comfortable silence and feel of his hand wrapped protectively over hers, and tipped her own glass of honey crisp back. At first, the taste was too coy for her enjoyment, but the aftertaste was so delicious that she had to have more. Before she knew it, she'd drained the cup- feeling much more relaxed but still sober- and only touched a few pieces of fruit and gone through one egg where as Jaime ate as though it were the first time he'd tasted food.

"You'll get a stomach ache if you keep eating like that," She said, grinning as he scarfed down a piece of honeyed duck.

Jaime laughed at that, though he'd desperately tried to conceal it. "You'll get drunk if you keep drinking like that," He fired back, nodding to her second glass of honey crisp.

Lyla rolled her eyes and sat the cup down, picking up her fork and spearing into a piece of duck from Jaime's plate, chewing deliberately. He laughed even harder at that and she caught Sansa sighing dreamily as she watched them, as if her young sister were thinking of happiness with her own betrothed- because what Lyla felt at that moment was happy, and if his eyes revealed any truth, Jaime was as well. _I suppose it takes him to calm me now_? She thought back to how nervous she was of all the eyes that were glued to her before Jaime came, leading her away and allowing her worries to dissipate into the atmosphere. However she tried, Lyla couldn't feel uncomfortable with the thought that it was indeed Jaime who now comforted her- she could have blamed it on the length of time that she was apart from Robb or Jon or Theon or even her busy, busy father Eddard, but in truth, it was because over the three, nearly four, months that she'd known Jaime Lannister, she had allowed herself to finally trust him fully.

"Are you troubled, darling girl?" Came a light, gentle voice, and Lyla turned her head, smiling to Jaime. He looked slightly worried, having no idea what wonderful revelations she was concluding in her cluttered mind.

She sat up as high as she could and kissed his lips in front of everyone in court, unabashed. "Not in the slightest." She said with utter confidence.

The breakfast went on as she supposed any would; there was a plethora of food, music that was kept a constant, and dancing. Thankfully, Jaime pulled her from the dancing before anyone- aside from the girls, Ned, Loras, Robert, and the young royals- could touch her. He'd seen Lancel and Joffrey begin to advance before she, saving her from the troubles of waltzing with either- for now.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Jaime inquired, kissing her cheek and then the tip of her nose. He'd been so affectionate that day, always kissing her or holding her, keeping one hand intertwined with hers nearly the whole breakfast. It made her feel safe, rather suffocated, and she was thankful for that.

Lyla nodded and waved to those that were departing to prepare for wedding, which was to take place in only hours- though she no longer felt the clench of worry, seeing as Jaime went through great lengths to comfort her that morning. "Of course I am. Are you?" She smirked, waving to Alys as she skittered off with Evelyn and the others, most likely back to her chambers for something by the looks on their sly faces.

"I believe I'll be enjoying myself more later," He murmured quietly into her ear, and Lyla felt her cheeks grow hot.

"Jaime!" She reprimanded, swatting his arm and losing her control as she began to release stifled laughter. She was about to continue, but before she could say another word the Princess Myrcella, Sansa, and Arya had grabbed her hand and pulled her away, calling their apologies for stealing her over their shoulders. It was time to get ready for the wedding.

* * *

The chamber looked as empty as a crypt as the girls walked in- or at least Lyla thought. The cots were all gone, her four-post bed removed, all the furniture but a few chairs stripped from the room and only boxes of ribbons, the vanity, changing screen, and her wedding gown left.

"It looks naked in here," Arya whispered, and Sansa snapped a shut up at her.

"Sansa, not today." Lyla muttered, half jesting. Still mesmerized by the sight of her heavenly ivory sating gown, Lyla pursed her lips and went to it, running her fingertips along the beautiful fabric. It felt like a river's fresh water; cool and silky and smooth. "I'm getting married today," She whispered in disbelief.

Myrcella and Sansa giggled and Arya grinned, "Of course you are, stupid!"

Lyla smiled, though it quickly grew into a brilliant, toothy grin. "I'm getting married today," She laughed, biting her lip and beaming as Myrcella began to fill the room with her decadent trills of giggles.

"Oh good, you've finally shown up."

Lyla spun around and raised both brows. "Queen Cersei," She said, slightly surprised. The Queen was donned in a long southern gown so deep blue that it was near black, with a chain of gold around her neck and rings of opal and sapphire strung along various fingers. She was a marvelous sight- if one were going to a funeral. "What brings you here, Your Grace?" She asked, suspicion clouding her voice.

Cersei smiled her tight-lipped smile and shook her head, "Come, little wolf, we needn't use titles anymore. Cersei is just fine, dear." She said, though Lyla could sense the falseness of the words.

It seemed Arya could too. "What _does_ bring you here?" She questioned, folding her arms. Arya was fresh washed that day, with her shoulder length thin brown curls plaited and a light silver gown covering her slight frame, a gown that matched her sister Sansa's perfectly.

"Mother has come to help Lyla dress," Myrcella explained, smiling, bright gold hair cascading in curls far tighter than her mother's. The Princess had worn a gown of pale cream gold lined in onyx- for it was customary to wear ones House colors to a wedding. It was to show ones self proudly, or so Septa Mordane had told her, for weddings were the hub of all budding romances. It was where lords met their future ladies, were young girls like Sansa danced until dawn and all the men in the ballroom fell in love with them. Weddings were magical; yet Cersei Lannister managed to suck up every drop of excitement that Lyla had for hers.

Lyla faked a smile to the Lion Queen and nodded sharply. "So be it; we'll need all the hands we can get. Where are the others?" She asked Sansa, who shrugged, eyes on the view outside the balcony doors.

"Never mind the ladies, I've sent them to do a few tasks so that this may be a more intimate affair," Said Cersei, the air in her voice crisp. She took a few small steps towards the wedding gown and her smile fell slightly, softening. "I remember my wedding day," She said. "Like it was yesterday. I was in red and gold and Robert... He looked so fierce and beautiful." Her fingers traced along the rim of freshwater pearls and she looked away briskly, folding her arms, tugging her shawl closer. "So long ago now."

Lyla watched the Queen with steady eyes and pursed her lips. She might have been a ruthless woman, Cersei, but she had her moments, moments where Lyla couldn't help but feel sorry for her. _She was in love with him once_, she thought. _But she never got the chance to be loved back_.

"Well, that's enough sad stories," Cersei said softly, looking back to Lyla. "Come, let's dress you."

Lyla sat in a chair that lay before her vanity as Myrcella and Sansa went to work on taking the pins from her hair and unbraiding the plaits, Cersei untying the ribbon that was around her waist. The girls ran a gentle silver-backed brush with platinum bristles through her thick curls of russet until they lay calmer than Lyla had ever seen them before. Another tradition that was celebrated trough the whole of Westeros; wearing ones hair down during the ceremony. It was a sign of their purity.

"Your hair doesn't look like a mess," Arya said, voice dripping with surprise.

Lyla coughed out a laugh, "Thank you, Arya," She said, chuckling.

"You know she didn't mean it that way," Sansa responded, rolling her eyes. "It just looks beautiful this way is all. You really aught to brush your hair more."

Lyla just rolled her eyes playfully and stood so that the girls could undo the cream ribbons that constricted her in the Lannister dress of ruby and gold. After she was undressed, Cersei shimmied the Stark colored wedding gown from the manikin and slipped it over Lyla's head, pulling the dagged sleeves over her arms and lacing the back with a satin ribbon lined in freshwater pearls.

Next came the maiden cloak, the beautiful fabric of silver and ivory that made her burning hot yet cool at the same time; she'd not worn a cloak since she left Winterfell and the southern heat, in a dress as heavy and thick as her wedding dress, made her burn like Wildfire, though cool because it reminded her of the northern chills, the wisping wind and snow.

Finally, Sansa and Arya pinned the veil of silver silk with the matching chains of platinum and pristine pearls hanging to them like dew to her head, pulling the silk over her face. "Oh, Lyla, you look like a dream," Sansa breathed, lifting the fabric only to kiss her cheek before she let it fall back down her face, like water.

"Gorgeous, so gorgeous," Myrcella agreed, grinning that brilliant little grin of hers. "You look like the North."

"I should hope so," Lyla said softly, touching the fabric. _I'll probably never see it again_, she thought sullenly to herself, frowning, though they couldn't see it through the silk of her veil.

Arya smiled softer that Lyla had seen in a long time. "You look pretty," She said.

Cersei held a small smile. "Girls, why don't you run along and tell Lord Stark that the bride is ready for her wedding." The girls nodded, excited, and skipped away into the hall while Arya walked slowly to it, leaving Lyla and Cersei alone in her bedchamber. _Old chamber_, she reminded herself. All her things were moved into the chamber conjoined to Jaime's.

"But you are a beauty, little wolf," Said the queen, who folded her arms. "So thin and young and so, so smart." Cersei circled her, evergreen eyes almost accusing. "Tonight you bed my brother," She said matter-of-factually. "And I'll have ears and eyes surrounding you. My father says I'm too cautious, but I only want to make sure Jaime is fully satisfied. You will satisfy him, won't you, little wolf?" She had grabbed Lyla's wrist by then, curling her nails into the beautiful fabric of her wedding gown.

Thinking on her toes, Lyla lifted the veil back from her face and ripped her arm away from the queen. "I'll satisfy him in ways you could never imagine, Your Grace," She said, a wicked and smart-ass grin working its way onto her lips. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a wedding to attend to."

It was near the same line she'd told Theon, Robb, and Jon near four moons turned, the day that she'd met Jaime Lannister, the man she was about to marry. Her smile fell from the smart-ass fashion and grew more sincere as she swept from the room in a swirl of skirts, leaving his golden twin sister Cersei alone in an empty chamber with a facial expression between mortified and furious.

* * *

"By the gods old and new, if I've ever seen a bride it's you," Robert Baratheon breathed lightly, grinning and staring at her. "You look just like how I imagined your aunt Lyanna would look."

Lyla smiled and embraced the king, "Thank you," she whispered to him before she pulled away, pecking his cheek chastely. "She would have loved you," She said with a strong voice, nodding.

He smiled sadly then and nodded along with her. "I know," He said. "You're just like her," Robert recalled, "You act like her, look like her, sound like her... I would have loved her greatly, Lyla. Greatly. I don't know how you do it, Ned."

Eddard Stark, who was standing with them in the hall outside the Sept, shrugged. "It's certainly not easy," he said, "but I enjoy every moment of it." He pulled Lyla in and kissed her cheek through the fabric of her silver veil. She was to be married the southern way, in a Sept, seeing as there were no heart trees so deep south to uphold her firm belief of the old gods, to her heavy disappointment.

Behind them, a throat cleared and they all turned to see Lord Tywin Lannister, clad in armor of ruby with a golden cape around his shoulders; his green eyes were unreadable. "I believe it's time our children wed, Lord Stark." He said with strength in his tone of voice.

"It seems so," replied Eddard, who held his hand tight on his daughter's shoulder, as if he were scared of letting her go. Robert and Tywin exchanged nods and entered the Sept. Eddard turned to Lyla and gave her a solemn smile. "Remember when you were a wee girl, and you told me you wanted to marry a wolf?" He asked, laughter in his voice.

Lyla grinned, chuckling. "Of course I do," She said. She remembered that day clearly; Robb and Theon had gone hunting for foxes and hawks and brought back a wolf with fur as silver as smoke and eyes like crystal clear waters. _"Oh please father, please might I keep it?"_ She'd asked Ned with her large doe-eyes and brown curls askew around her, folded hands under her chin pleadingly. He'd said yes then, not knowing of the creatures angry and aggressive nature until it tried to maul Robb. But the night after the wolf attacked Robb, Catelyn found her daughter, only three at the time, curled up at the feet of the chained silver wolf, which snapped at all but her. "I wanted to marry the smoke colored wolf," She recalled.

Ned nodded softly, holding his arm out for her to take. "You may not be wedding a wolf, but Jaime is. He is still the Kingslayer, but he clearly cares for you and, though I'll never love him like I love Robb or Jon or Bran or Rickon, he has my respect."

Lyla felt her eyes watering. For Eddard Stark, a man of unyielding and brutal honor, to accept a man he thought of only as the Kingslayer as his daughter's husband and to _respect_ him as such or more, was beyond her expectations or hopes. "That means more to me than you know, father," she said as he slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before signaling for the large double doors to be opened for her and taking her first steps inside.

It was absolutely stunning in the Sept. The windows were all stained into beautiful arrays ranging from gold to violet and every color in between- light pouring through the shards of gorgeous glass in the colors of their block, the whole of the room displayed as though it were a crystal rainbow. Velvet drapes as ivory as her wedding gown were hung by the windows with care, detailed with a pale honey floral filigree design and chandeliers of crystal hung from the brilliantly tall ceiling, reflecting the rainbow colors that poured through the stained glass windows and making it even more intense.

The aisle was covered with a thin silk sheet of white with petals painted red and gold lining the walkway. Those who sat in the crowd turned as Lyla neared the first of the pews, eyes going wide and all gasping or whispering soft things and praises. But Lyla's eyes were on Jaime, not the Princess and Sansa who nearly jumped when they saw her, not the King who looked near in tears as he watched her, only Jaime.

He was dressed in cloth of gold that matched his hair immaculately, sunshine locks brushed back and emerald eyes glued to her. Suddenly everything became so real- a man she'd known for four moons turned was to be her husband. She was wedding, and soon bedding, a Lannister. They were still more or less new to each other and not once had they really opened up- but Lyla found that she cared about all that less and less as she stepped down the aisle.

Jaime was gentle, kind. He was patient and gave her time to develop her feelings before he forced anything on her, which was more than most men would be able to control themselves with. He'd never given her a reason not to trust him, so why not just trust him indeed? If there was a time where she needed to take it back, she'd take it back, but at that very moment, as she neared the end of her walk down the aisle of silk and rose petals, enraptured by his genuine and obscene smile, Lyla couldn't find any reason not to let him hold her trust.

The High Septon was dressed in thick, rich robes with a tall crystal crown. "Who gives this girl?" He asked, though Lyla's focus was on his round, robust stomach.

Her father smiled beside her, "I do," He said strongly.

"And who receives her?" Asked the High Septon, in his wispy, high strung voice.

Jaime grinned, "I do," He said casually, holding his arm out, hand open for her to take.

Lyla gave her father a quick peck on the cheek before she reached out and took Jaime's hand in hers. Ned took a step aside and then it seemed like it was just Lyla and Jaime, standing to face each other though she knew he could hardly make out her face from behind the silver veil she wore.

The High Septon continued to recite the seven vows, Lyla and Jaime repeating them after him, and after that he gave them the seven blessings. "The bride's cloak, please," Said the High Septon, looking over to where Lord Tywin held a rich, thick cloak of ruby lined in gold with a brilliant shining lion in the center of it.

Eddard stepped back towards her again and pulled her hair over her back so that he could see where the silver cloak-clips were sewn into her gown. "I love you, my darling girl," He whispered to her as he unclasped her cloak of silver with the white direwolf and freshwater pearls. "You will always be a Stark, Lyla. A northern wolf." He said. After the maiden cloak was off of her back, Tywin handed Jaime the bride's cloak, Jaime stepping to her.

"Welcome to the lion's den, dearest," He murmured affectionately to her as he clicked the clasps of the crimson and golden cloak onto her gown of ivory and silver. He took his place beside her once more and held both her hands in his.

"I now claim this woman Lady Lyla Lannister," The High Septon's echo inclined voice rang through the Sept, causing the chandeliers to jingle most beautifully.

Lyla took a deep breath and squeezed Jaime's hands for reassurance. With the next words, it would be done and she would be Jaime's wife. Sensing her unease, Jaime thankfully spoke first. "With this kiss, I proclaim my love," He said clearly, so the whole of the Sept could hear him.

Pulling her veil back, Jaime's smile grew even more. "With this kiss, I proclaim my love," She said, though not nearly as loud or as even-toned as Jaime. _This is it_, she thought as their faces neared and foreheads met, _this is it_.

Their lips met, chaste and sweet, a fresh take on their usually intense sessions, and Lyla couldn't feel anything but relief that it was finally over; all the planning and surprises and moving. She was to enter the stable life of being Jaime's lady wife. In that moment, as the crowd cheered excitedly and people hurried to congratulate them, Lyla only saw Jaime, his emerald eyes and charming smile. He was beautiful and kind and Lyla just grinned at him as she rested her palm on his cheek and pulled him in for another kiss.

She walked into the Sept a direwolf of House Stark and left it a lion of House Lannister.

_*Hello all! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, for I certainly enjoyed writing it. I dialed down the dialogue on this one so that you could really get a feel for Lyla's emotions and her nerves, which slowly melted into comforts, in a way._  
_So anyways, I'll be writing the feast and bedding in the next chapter because I don't want some random eight thousand word chapter amongst my regular three-five thousand word chapters._  
_I can't wait to hear your thoughts on the chapter and wedding! I've really enjoyed reading those on my previous chapters- they seriously just make me so excited! So yeah, hope you all have beautiful weekends and enjoy the Season Three Premiere tonight! (3/31/13) :)_


	19. Chapter 19

By the time they reached the main hall it was nightfall.

Moonlight twinkled through the open windows with ruby lions painted on the glass and poured into the room like a film of milky silver that balanced out the overwhelming amounts of gold and crimson. The tablecloths were of red and cream, swirled with ivory and tassels of onyx dripping from them like black dew. Goblets of silver and gold alike were placed beside dining sets of opal and shining silverware, full of Dornish reds and Arbor whites and even exotics from beyond the Narrow Sea.

The floor was polished over again once lions of brilliant crimson were painted on them, and the velvet wall coverings of gold with roaring ruby lions swayed gently in the rare southern breeze. Everything was absolutely beautiful, though nothing was as stunning as the bride.

When he'd first seen her walking into the Sept, he'd nearly choked on the air he was breathing. She looked a vision, truly. Her wild russet curls were brushed through until they fell in gentle ringlets, calmer than he'd ever seen them, though her face was covered with a sheet of flowing silver silk, a veil with silver chains that ran down the length of it like individual waterfalls, freshwater pearls clinging to them like raindrops. Her gown of myrish lace and ivory fit her perfectly, all rimmed in pale grey with her dagged sleeves skimming the ground, maiden cloak of silver with a white direwolf sewn into it swinging like northern wind behind her. She was the only thing on his mind, then and even now as they stood hand in hand at the entrance of the main hall.

He looked down at her as she looked up at him, a gleaming, toothy smile illuminating her face as she tugged on their intertwined hands and began leading him up the hall and to the dais. The cloak of ruby lined in gold with a roaring cream lion that clung to her shoulders swayed effortlessly as she walked slightly ahead of him and Jaime found himself smiling like an oaf. She was his bride- nay, she was his _wife_, the only one he was like to have and probably the only one he would ever... Love? Was it love that he felt when it came to Lyla? Mayhaps it simply _couldn't_ be, as he'd only ever loved one woman in his life.

Looking over his shoulder to see his golden sister clad in her gown of black and pale buttercream, he immediately snapped his head back to his wife. Cersei was sneering in a distasteful demeanor, green eyes cold as ice and lip curved in a most ugly fashion. No, he realized, he didn't love his sister anymore, at least not in that way. His heart had already begun flowing with affection for the little wolf of his, in fact it started to a while ago, though how long back Jaime could not say.

She turned her head and flashed him an easy smile, one that looked only joyous and not disdainful, as his sister's would have. It would be easy to love the pretty little woman with sapphires for eyes, Jaime concluded, for it was certainly easy enough to fall for her.

He caught up with her quickly as he began to move his feet more nimbly, one of his strides matching two of hers. Untangling their hands, he swung an arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead, relishing in the sound of her bright laughter ringing through the air, mixing with that of the quiet chatter of the guests that began to find their seats for the first course.

Jaime pulled out his wife's seat and smirked when the feel of her soft lips warmed his own. "Feeling frisky, darling girl?" He questioned as she sat and scooted herself up to the table.

Rolling her glittering eyes, Lyla scoffed. "And here I thought husbands liked to be kissed by their wives," She said, pulling the veil of silver silk from her hair and placing it beside her plate on the table. A server made haste in getting to them at the dais, holding a long bottle of pale green that was narrow at the nozzle and fat towards the end, pouring a wine that was a mixture of cream and white into Lyla's golden goblet. "Mm," she moaned softly, lifting the cup and inhaling the scent.

"Oh I most certainly like being kissed by my wife," He insisted, leaning over and claiming her lips to make a point. "I just didn't know the wives liked it so much." Having the Mad King and his wife Rhaella be the first taste of marriage that he'd experienced, and after that Cersei and Robert, he'd not expected Lyla's reactions to his affection to be so accepting. The only happily married couple he'd seen in his life had been Eddard and Catelyn Stark, his own wife's parents. They seemed so happy, at least until... Jaime shook his head, gold waves swaying. Today was not the day to dwell on the past, only the future.

His wife shrugged, long brown curls tumbling from her shoulder to lay behind her as she turned her head to thank the waiter that placed the first course in front of her. While Lyla was most likely observing the dish, Jaime was observing her. When he'd first met her, she had hair that was near frizzy it curled so tight, reaching only just past her shoulders, skin so milky white that he'd never mistaken her for anything but northern.

Now her ringlets of russet fell to the lower-mid of her back, calmer and no longer frizzy, and she'd become more golden in the southern sun, though she was still as pale as a northerner dared to be. He watched as she picked a fork up and ran it through a piece of honeyed ham, raising it to her lips and accepting the bite with a subtle grace that she would never admit she had.

"I fear I like your kisses more than I dared hope," Lyla murmured in response to his previous statement, grinning wildly as she bit into another piece of the ham. Smirking right along with her, the Lion of Lannister allowed himself a few bites of the meat, though forced himself to stop after only five. It wasn't because the ham wasn't good, for it most certainly was, but Cersei had ordered the kitchens to make forty courses, and he intended on trying at least half of them. "Jaime?" Came Lyla's voice, and he turned to look at her from over his goblet, which was full of a mulled Dornish red.

"Yes?" He raised a brow, setting the cup down so she could have his attention.

She looked towards the floor- barren of any life- for a fleeting moment before turning back to face him. "When will the dancing begin?" She asked, raising a brow of her own, curls swaying with every moment of her dainty head.

Jaime laughed, tossing his head back for a moment. She loved dancing, he knew, for he remembered her dancing with near every one of her brothers at the Winterfell feast, and the question was so innocent, so eager. "There are to be forty courses, Lyla, I don't think that anyone will get up to dance until after the twentieth at least." In Winterfell, people began dancing as soon as they entered the hall, eating at their leisure and doing as they pleased, but in King's Landing, or near all the South, such behavior was labeled as improper.

She looked down, biting her lip. "I'm growing tired of all these southern proprieties," She sighed as she lifted her cup but made no move to drink from it. Taking her hand, Jaime kissed each knuckle and nodded in agreement, keeping their hands locked together as the second course was placed before them.

After only fifteen dishes had been served, Lyla had stopped eating, excitement filling her as the guests began to chatter more, the wines of the evening loosening them to almost as calm as the northerners that his wife was so used to. After the twentieth course Jaime had become too full to go on, shoving his plate away and sipping on distilled water for only a moment before he felt warm fingers wrap around his arm and tug him out of his seat. Quickly he set the goblet on the table and laughed as Lyla dragged him to the dance floor, even harder as she squealed when he lifted her bridal style and swung her around the floor.

Music began playing, violins and harps and every other instrument, and Jaime felt at peace. He snaked an arm around her waist and the other cradled her hand, her other draping his shoulder. Hamish the Harper began singing _My Lady Wife_, a song of bliss and romance, and he lost all thoughts that might have begun to tinker in his mind as his wife began to hum along, pulling him closer and resting her head on his shoulder. Her voice was delicate, soothing as a mother's lullaby or the autumn rains, and Jaime could have stayed like that forever- her wrapped in his arms with a crowd of guests mooning over their obvious affection.

"You're beautiful," He whispered to her as they twirled, feeling as she smiled against his doublet of gold. "Today and every day."

When the song ended, Lyla looked up at him with her gleaming crystal blue eyes and he melted. She opened her mouth as if to speak but closed it, looking away as guests began to file onto the floor by the tens to twenties at a time, another singer beginning _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_. Selfishly, Jaime continued dancing with her rather allowing anyone else to step in, grinning as she looked at him with question, an amused smile tickling at her pretty lips.

They'd only been dancing through half of _A Rose of Gold_ when Loras stepped in and asked for her hand in the dance, claiming it was only fitting the bride dance with a Tyrell through a song composed in the Reach. Reluctantly, he nodded consent and Lyla gave him a quick peck before swinging away with the gallant Knight of Flowers.

As he returned to the dais, sitting and watching his wife dance away happily, he saw why they mooned at he and Lyla- for they weren't eying them both, just the bride. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of dancing, eyes bright as the moon that pooled the room in an odd film of silver, skirts blossoming around her like a moon lily with each twirl. She was certainly the most beautiful woman on the dance floor, or at least to Jaime she was.

"Lovely night, wouldn't you agree?" Came a sultry voice, and he turned to see none other than his golden twin sister taking Lyla's seat beside him. Her sunshine curls, so much like his own, were loose other than a few sections that were pulled back in easy braids and held together with black bands. Her gown, onyx with golden embroidery and stags sewn all around it, was of velvet and fine silks, green eyes glowing. She was a beauty, though with his wife clouding his mind, comparisons were being made effortlessly.

Cersei had lines stretching out from the corners of her eyes no matter how faintly, her skin beginning to dry and her hair wasn't as lusty or shiny as it used to be. She was clearly aged, and Jaime looked away, wondering what he must look like as her twin. "The evening is good," He agreed slowly, sipping on Lyla's honey crisp wine from across the Narrow Sea. He could taste why she devoured it like candy that morning; it was fresh and sweet and coy, the aftertaste even better than the actual drink.

Placing a sisterly hand over his, Cersei smiled and looked off into the crowd, where Lyla had begun dancing with her father, Ned Stark. "I've heard rumors of her and the Tyrell boy," She said softly, squeezing his hand.

Jaime retracted his hand and restrained a snort, rolling his evergreen eyes. "She's been with me nearly the whole time she's been in King's Landing. She was to be betrothed to his elder brother as a girl." He said, voice near sharp. Lyla swung from Eddard's arms into Tywin's and then Joffrey's, and Jaime stood abruptly at the sneering grin the boy held. As he was making to leave, Cersei gripped his wrist, nails digging into it roughly, keeping him aseat.

"Leave the children to dance," She said in a threatening voice and Jaime glowered.

"My _wife_ is no child." He reminded his twin, ripping his arm from her though her nails no doubt raked skin from him. "You're a Queen, act like it, not like some moody girl who hasn't flowered yet." Standing, he noticed that Lyla's brilliant smile fell and she was thrust into the arms of Lancel Lannister, now her goodcousin. He was whispering words with dark tidings, it seemed, holding Lyla far too close for far too long, and by the time Jaime reached her it seemed too late.

A tear trickled from her eye and she seethed, shaking slightly. "Jaime, I want to go," She said indignantly, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and pulling herself close to him. In response, knowing he couldn't very well kill a man on his wedding day, he simply held her close and kissed the crown of her head. "Please, can't we just leave?" She asked just as _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown_ began to play.

Giving her a small smile, Jaime kissed each of her cheeks as he pulled away. "Fear not," was all he had time to say before the King shouted, "Let's get on with the bedding!" lightheartedly, drunk and holding the Princess Myrcella on his lap, covering her ears with his bear-paw hands.

Lyla looked petrified, shock and terror creeping into her eyes for a moment before a luxurious smile played out on her face and she looked straight into her husband's eyes. "It would be my pleasure," She goaded at the King brightly, who laughed hoarsely in return.

"I'm sure it would!" He called back, laughing even harder as Tommen hopped on his other knee. Robert was a good father to his children, Jaime thought with a smile on his face, not always, but when he chose to be he was a loving man.

The guests began cheering their agreements and soon Jaime was torn from Lyla, men crowding her and women him. They were giddy about undressing the Kingslayer, it seemed, and the men even more so about the Wildling of Winterfell, who laughed haughtily at their drunk remarks. Joffrey and Lancel were nowhere to be seen, and Jaime felt himself relax, chuckling along with the ladies that began to pull his doublet from his trousers.

Lyla's group of lady friends surrounded him; Alys Frey, Karyn Mallister, Jesenna Cressey, Jillian Peasebury, Berissa Estren, and Evelyn Ambrose, all pretty and bubbly and as drunk as the King. Alys grinned at him knowingly as she unlaced his doublet and tore it away from his body and Evelyn daringly attacked his boot, pulling them from his feet as Karyn tugged at and loosened his trouser laces. Jillian pulled off his vest with help from Jesenna Cressey and Berissa unclasped his cloak.

Cersei came through the crowd and tugged his trousers off, face flat and expression blank as he was left standing in only his breeches and a loose tunic, both as crimson and bold as blood. "Come brother, let us hurry you to your chamber," She said, staying behind as the ladies rushed him out the great hall and down the corridors, where Lyla had been spirited off to only moments before.

* * *

The men had left her outside of Jaime's chamber wearing only her golden silk smallclothes and the Lannister cloak she was donned in only hours before. Shivering and shaking from her nerves, she reached out and tentatively wrapped her fingers around the door handle, twisting it slowly as she pulled the door of solid cherry oak open.

The room was large, larger than her own had been surely, with the windows wide open that led to a small deck, and drapes of crimson flowing like waterfalls of blood. Rugs of black bear skins were placed around the four post bed of painted golden wood that had silks of ruby wrapped beautifully around them. The sheets were covered by furs of wolf and bear alike, pillows of silk fluffy and high at the head of the bed.

There was a table with cream tapestries and chairs that were padded and upholstered with velvets of onyx swirled in crimson. A desk of dark stained wood was across the room and there were stacks of papers neatly piled atop it, in fact, the whole room was neat, to the girl's surprise. She'd expected a slew of tunics and breeches and gloves and what ever else Jaime fancied to leave about the floor, but it was tidy and freshly cleaned.

She pulled the cloak closer to her form as she went to the windows and closed them, the breeze having lapped at the fire that blazed near his desk until it was nearly extinguished, then poured herself some wine from the pitcher of iron that sat at the table, sipping from it to quell her nerves.

She had played off confidence to Cersei, claiming she would please Jaime in ways that the Queen could never imagine, but in all honesty, Lyla had no idea about the marriage bed. All she knew was what Septa Mordane had told her, "It's painful and cold," Said the crone, "And I wouldn't be surprised if your crying through the whole of it."

Would it truly hurt, she wondered, or would Jaime try and ease the pain? She hadn't a clue, even less of how it really happened. Turning and walking towards the windows that lead to a tiny balcony, one smaller than her own, she placed one hand on the ledge while the other held the goblet. She heard the door open behind her and clutched the balcony's fencing tighter, tensing.

Quiet footsteps followed the door being bolted and soon she felt as arms wrapped around her waist and a head rested on her shoulder, lips pressing to her cheek. "Come inside," Said Jaime, whispering softly. "It's cold this night."

To Lyla, the cold was welcomed, as it reminded her of home, but she knew he must have been freezing in the icy breeze, so she nodded, setting her cup on the ledge and allowing him to lead her inside. He seemed taller, she realized as she watched him shut and lock the door that led to the balcony. He was wearing only a tunic and small breeches, both as blood red as the drapes he pulled over the windows and glass door.

She could make out faint scars on his arms and legs, and then his back as he pulled his tunic over his head, raking a hand through his golden hair as he sighed and turned to face her, fire illuminating his features. He wasn't smiling, green eyes aglow as he studied her small figure, watching intently as she unclasped her cloak of ruby and gold and laid it on a chair beside her, keeping eye contact with him the whole time.

He took a small step towards her and she towards him, both of them biting their lips. This was the part that most wives dreaded from the pain, the part that most husbands desired from the pleasure, and the part that Lyla couldn't tell if she feared or was curious about.

Reaching her arm out, she clasped her husband's hand in her own and gave him a small smile, pulling him close to her. "Are you making a study of me?" She mused softly, placing a hand on his cheek and pulling him in for a kiss after she realized that he wasn't going to make the first move.

Jaime loosened up after that, smirking slightly. "Admiring, more like. Do you know how beautiful you are?" He asked lightheartedly, running one of his hands down the curve of her hip and back up it, sending delicious shivers to her spine.

"Do you?" She asked, allowing herself to laugh. He looked so handsome in the bare firelight, sunshine hair looking more gold than even the flames, green eyes like wildfire. He stood no more than a foot taller than her now that she'd grown some, though she was still demure against his frame as she held him close.

He grinned down at her, then all humor fell away and he just stared at her for a moment, taking in her face, every inch of her body as though his eyes saw through the silken smallclothes she wore. "I do," He said, leaning down and wrapping his hands under her bottom, pulling her up so that he didn't have to look down at her.

She wrapped her legs around his middle, her arms already at his neck, fingers toying with his gold waves. "Jaime," she began, but his lips had started to voraciously attack her neck, pulling the strap of her chemise down and running his fingers along her back.

He kissed down her shoulder and licked back up it, and Lyla was certain that her skin had never felt hotter. She put her palms on his cheeks and forced his face to meet hers again as her lips crashed down on his, warm and slow. A moan sounded, though she didn't know who it came from, and he laid them on the bed, hands roaming her body.

He was propped over her, kissing her long and slow, one hand resting at her breast, fingers rolling her nipple between them. "Oh," she gasped through their kiss, arching her back towards him. He moaned softly as one of her hands fisted into his hair and she opened her mouth for him.

He felt so good and every move they made felt right, and Lyla felt as her nerves melted away. She'd ultimately dreaded bedding her husband on her wedding day, but this was already so different than what she'd expected, not that she expected anything at all really so perhaps that was why she was surprised.

When Jaime pulled away, his eyes were hooded, lingering all over her body. He kissed her neck and then her shoulder and up her right arm until he reached the scar, long and jagged and ugly. He looked at it quizzically before the recognition set in and Lyla quickly pulled her arm back to herself, looking away.

"Why hide your scars from me?" Jaime questioned, raising a golden brow.

Lyla just sat up and folded her arms. "It's ugly," She said looking him square in his eyes of evergreen. And it _was_ ugly. The scar was pink around the edges, thick with a strip of white down the middle, sticking out from the rest of her arm like a mountain. She unraveled her arms and inspected it, frowning. Jaime just sighed and grabbed her wrist softly, pulling her arm out so he could see it.

"This," He said with a strong voice, "is a mark of your bravery. Not many women, highborn or lowborn, could boast of their skill with a sword, nor their battle scars to prove it. But you can." He pulled her arm even closer to him and laid the flat of her hand on the expanse of his exposed chest. It was covered in scars from tiny nicks to the largest, which curved from under his nipple to just above his bellybutton. "We all have scars," He told her, smiling however softly.

She felt her lips curve into a smile again and she, feeling bold, grabbed his hands and placed them on her hips. He wasn't what she was hoping for in a husband. He was more. Looking at her with curiosity, Jaime allowed his little wife to move his hands up her body, dragging her slip of golden silk with them. After he got the idea, Lyla simply held her arms up over her head as she let her husband run his hands, and her chemise, up and over her head, leaving her naked but for her undergarments.

For a moment neither moved, but drank in the sight of each other; Jaime his wife's near nude body, Lyla her husband's war scars and battle marks. They were beautiful to each other, that much was clear in their lusty eyes. Looking up from his chest, Lyla smiled, unabashed that her breasts were open for his view as she laid back down.

She thought Jaime would follow her lead and lay atop her again the way they were before, but he stayed behind, staring at her with the goofiest of grins on his shell-pink lips. "Jaime?" She questioned, but he didn't answer as he uncrossed his legs and slid down, parting her legs with his hands. "What are you..."

"Trust me." He said before he tugged at her undergarments with his teeth, pulling them down and finishing the job with his fingers until she was stark naked before him. She'd made to at least attempt to hide herself, but she'd known from the start that she'd lose the fight- she had married the Kingslayer, after all. He pulled his breeches off before settling between her, smirking.

It began with simple kisses on the inner part of her thigh, leading a warmth to pool between her legs as he neared her most private part, holding her down with his left arm while his right began to explore. Skilful fingers began to whisper on her stomach, slowly but most certainly sliding down her body until they reached _there_, touching her in a painfully gentle way. When his lips finally found their way to her genitalia, Lyla gasped and bit her lip until she was sure it was washed of color.

His tongue glided over her folds so delicately, sweet and slightly timid. "Oh," She moaned, feeling her breath pick up. When his tongue entered the slit between her legs, she gasped again, more sharply. The feeling was intense- hot and fresh and nearly wild as he drank her up like the wine she caught him sipping on while his sweet sister spoke with him on the dais.

Tentative fingers pushed through the folds too and soon found their way to the base of Lyla's opening, one sliding in slowly as he sucked on _something_ that was driving her crazy. "Please..." she groaned, though she had no idea what she was begging for.

Jaime moaned into her and began running his tongue up and down her once again, adding another finger to the one. It all felt so surreal and wonderful, something she could never have imagine nor would have wanted to. A pressure was building between her legs and Lyla was panting by then, gripping the sheets of cream at first and them her husband's golden curls.

"Jaime, Jaime, Jaime..." She whimpered, feeling a child from the way her voice sounded so needy, but gods the feeling that was coming from him working his magic down there overwhelmed her to the point where she didn't care. "Jaime, _please_." She whispered just as- Oh! All of a sudden, as he began suckling on the stem of all her pleasure again, something snapped and a flow of delicious shivers ran through her like the sparks from lightning. She closed her eyes and saw colors, breathless but crying out in pleasure at the same time, feeling as her body tried to buck against his arm and she arched her back, curling her toes.

Her body was in the the perfect equilibrium of pleasure and serenity when she felt Jaime move and crawl atop her, propping himself on one elbow as he positioned himself at her entrance, kissing her neck softly then claiming her lips. He tasted sweet, or rather _she_ tasted sweet, and she felt herself blush giddily as she remembered what he'd just done.

She was slightly drunk and overly loose where as Jaime seemed back to his serious composure as he looked her in the eyes, green fading into sapphire blue, and suddenly she knew what he was doing. "Stay calm," He said as he slowly began to push himself into her. "This... will hurt a little," He told her in a voice heavy from pleasure.

She'd known he was aroused- she saw it when her eyes raked along his barren chest- but now that she felt it, an excitement grew in her. The further he pushed, the more that Jaime looked like he was losing a seeming built up control and Lyla ran her hands over his back to sooth him, kissing him gently as she felt the tension that had grown on him, working his shoulders with her fingers. "Its you who should relax, Jaime," she jested softly, her quiet laughter cut off when she felt a sharp and utter pain between her legs and she looked down between them; more intrigued than fearful.

The pain was in contrast to the high she was coming down from and it burned, causing her to bite her lip once again. "I'm sorry..." Jaime murmured to her, pursing his lips as he sank further into her, his eyes mixed between total pleasure and sincerity. But Lyla just rolled her eyes, eyes that were watering and single silver tears trickled from.

"Just don't make me regret agreeing to this," She said, and his lips twitched into a smile. It was the same thing she'd told him all those months ago, back in Winterfell when he first opened up to her and she first let him in. Holding his face between her palms, Lyla pulled him in for a long, slow kiss as he began to pull out.

The pain increased but only slightly as he began to slowly move in and out of her, and she even found a queer joy in hearing as he moaned haughtily in her mouth as he thrusted gently. "Don't be afraid," She whispered against his lips, "I'm not glass."

They both laughed at that and he nodded, head lowering from hers, his soft lips reaching her nipple as he began to tease it with his tongue, reaching a hand up to cup her breast. Lyla heard herself moan deliciously and grinned deviously at the wonton ways her body began to react to Jaime- for where it once wanted to reject him, she found her hips begin to move against him as the thrusts became quicker and harder even.

She ran her hands down his back, feeling his muscles as he worked over her, an idea blossoming in her mind as she made Jaime look at her once more. She knew he was holding back- painfully so, even- and decided to take matters in her own hands since he was so afraid of hurting her.

It was endearing, the amount he care for keeping her from harms way, but Lyla wanted him to enjoy himself. It was _his_ wedding night too, after all. Grinning, she pushed at his chest and slowly wrapped her legs around him, rolling them both over so that she straddled him like she had just the day before when the ladies had caught them in a battle of tongues on her old bed in her old chamber.

"Trust me." She repeated to him when he looked at her with curiosity, lifting up from his body and sliding back down. This sensation was so different, so sensual. She moaned along with Jaime as she set a pace that was quicker than she originally anticipated, and he leaned up, grabbing at her body as if he were trying to keep himself under control. The power that Lyla felt as she slid up and down Jaime's shaft, watching his face twist in curious pleasure, was like no other.

Jaime groaned deeply as she rolled her hips on him and he flipped them over again, as though that was the line of letting go, thrusting into her as his lips attacked hers, making Lyla whimper against his lips like a kitten as he pumped in and out of her.

"Oh _gods_, Jaime," Lyla moaned. She didn't know from the beginning that it could feel this way, so delightful and enticing and gratifying. She began chanting his name as his hand slid between them and toyed with the nub that her pressure flowed to until an undying pleasure coursed through her veins and she breathlessly cried out in climax for the second time that night, biting softly on his neck as he began thrusting even harder and quicker, both of them enthralled in the feel of it until Jaime groaned loudly as his hips bucked against hers wildly and suddenly a gush of warmth filled her and he slid beside her, pulling her dainty body onto his.

They lay there for what seemed like hours as they tried to catch their breath, hands running along each others bodies and through each others hair. Lyla placed lazy kisses on his chest and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck as Jaime pulled furs over them, holding her tight after they were covered.

They didn't need to share words on how beautiful it was or how they enjoyed it, because they just _knew_. It was sweet and gentle, like that of Sansa's songs, but wild and wonton at the same time; timid yet utterly careless. Lyla couldn't say what time it was when she felt sleep dragging on her lids and she was far too tired to fight it.

She looked up at her husband one last time before closing her eyes and pulling herself even closer to him, kissing his chilled, sweating skin again. "I think I might just love you, Jaime Lannister," She whispered, sleep finally taking her.

_*Holy wow. I can't believe that this story got to over 100 reviews and follows! And it's nearly there with favorites! I can't tell you how psyched I was when I saw that I hit my 100th review- I actually squealed in joy! It means more to me than anything that you have all stuck with me up to this point, and I can only hope that you keep on sticking around because we're finally getting back on track with the book/show canon! Eee!_  
_Anyways, finally got to the most intimate part of Lyla and Jaime's relationship- so far at least. (See why I have an M rating?) I hope that it lived up to your expectations! How did you like it? How did you like the Season 3 Premiere? I'm so anxious to hear from you all, my beautiful and wonderful readers/reviewers. :)_  
_So yeah, hope you're all enjoying your weekend (and if you're on spring break as I am, enjoy that too!) and have some splendid days- I'm sure you all deserve it! Tons of love from this happy writer! xox.  
PS: Guest- Yes, when I write Jaime, he is much different in my mind than in the series. He is taller in my imagination with more blonde colored hair, as described in the books (gold). He doesn't look quite so old in my mind either. Good question!  
_


	20. Chapter 20

He could feel gentle kisses being pressed against his chest as he woke, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Looking down he saw Lyla, still on his chest, tracing patterns on him with her fingertip and touching her lips to each scar on his torso. The feel of her naked form against his, moving up and down as she reached each cicatrix, made him moan and she quickly glanced up at him.

"Don't get up," he murmured as she began to prop herself on her elbows, "I rather like this."

He'd meant the intimacy, the closeness of their proximity, but she smirked wildly. "Oh I know you like it," she said, snaking a hand under the furs and grasping him. "I've felt how much you like it all morning."

Groaning in pleasure at the feel of her soft, warm hand around him, Jaime wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled them over so he was atop her. "Maybe you wouldn't have if you weren't kissing me like that," he said, claiming her lips and sliding his hand up to her breast, cupping it.

She felt so good, so right, and he moaned into her lips as her hand began sliding up and down his shaft. Last night he had tried to be so careful, but she'd resented it and rode him like she would her stallion- so this morning he decided to make it up to her.

Lyla reached her free hand up and filled it with his curls, wrapping her legs around his hips as he lowered onto her even further, licking the part of her lips and nibbling on her plump bottom buss. "Oh," she moaned deeply as his hand slid between them and began playing with her most private part, rubbing and teasing her. "Oh, _oh_."

By then he was as hard as he'd ever been, growling as she bravely bit his bottom lip, her tongue toying with his. "It seems I've made a lion of you yet, sweetling," he murmured to her as he kissed down her neck, stopping when he reached her bosom.

"I'm not a lion," she breathed, gasping in pleasure as he took her nipple in his mouth. "I'm a wolf still. I'll always be a... a wolf," Lyla stuttered as he dipped his tongue into her bellybutton and ran it all the way down to her sex. Her hands gripped his hair tightly as he began licking up and down her private, over the slit at first to tease her and then into the depths as she whimpered for him.

He loved to hear her moan and feel as her legs desperately curled around him and her fingers tugged at his hair. "You're so sweet," he moaned into her as she rolled herself against his mouth. And she was sweet; sweeter than the coy wine she loved so much, sweeter than the lemoncakes her sister craved. "I could just eat you up," he murmured.

"Oh please," Lyla groaned, "please, _please_ do." He grinned against her and reached his hand up, rubbing her opening softly. She must still be sore, he knew, but she didn't show it as she curled her fingers tighter into his hair. Slowly, he pushed his finger up to enter her, exploring her. "Yes," he heard her whisper under her breath as she moaned again and he huffed a slight chuckle as he slipped another finger into her, rotating them slowly.

She was soaked, and he could see where she was leaking slightly down her thighs as he pulled away for a moment to glance up at her face. Lyla looked gorgeous in the equipoise of the morning sunlight and complete and blissful pleasure she was undertaking; her russet curls were wild once more and her blue eyes were closed, brows knit together as though she were holding back.

"Just let go," he hummed to her, taking enjoyment in the fact that it was now he telling her to release herself to the pleasure- and just like that, she did as he bid her. Her cries of pure satisfaction were like music to his ears and Jaime grinned wickedly, letting her ride it out as he continued to kiss and lick her sex.

Before she'd all but caught her breath, Jaime crawled his way up her body, placing wet, open mouthed kisses on her as he did. "Good morning wife," he said sweetly to her, cradling her face with his clean hand.

She hummed lightly and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Good morning, husband," she whispered against his lips, gasping as he positioned himself in front of her entrance. Jaime expected her to shake her head or fain she was too sore and tired, but she just smiled and drew him closer with her legs, which were wrapped fully around him.

There was nothing better than being inside of a woman, Jaime thought as he began sliding inside of his little wife, who threw her head back and groaned deeply, moving her body against him in a way that drove him wild. _She's perfect_, he mused to himself, _fucking perfect_.

As her moans grew more frequent so did his, and he began pumping in and out of her at a pace quicker than the night before, much quicker. After trying so hard to be gentle with Lyla last night, he'd lost all patience with himself and desperately worked above her. She was warm, she was inviting, and most importantly she was all his; he didn't have to worry about sharing her with someone else or seeing her hold another's hand or kiss them. He was her first kiss, her first _Lord's Kiss_, her first partner. _And hopefully her only_, he thought, _because I'd hate to share this delicious treat with anyone else_.

Lyla clawed at his back and whimpered uncontrollably, biting her lip until it blazed white. He felt her begin to close around him and clenched his jaw, growling deviously as he quickened his pace, harder as well as faster, lowering his head and occupying his mouth by rolling his tongue over her nipple, biting it gently- which only made her cry out louder.

"Oh_ hells_," Jaime breathed as her walls finally crashed down on him and he smacked into her, losing himself in the feel of her and the way she pushed herself against him, the room drowning in their moans and groans and cries. She reached over and claimed his lips just as they came together, sweating and dragging their hands up and down each others bodies.

He immediately collapsed beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist and dragging her close to him. Her chest rose and fell slower and slower as time went on, as well as his, and it seemed like no time before they breathed regularly again. "Could I wake up to this every morning?" Jaime jested into her hair, and she rolled her eyes, propped up on her elbow and facing him.

"You might get bored of me too quickly if I indulge you every morning," she mused back, and Jaime laughed.

"I don't think I'll ever be bored of you, dearest girl," He said, kissing her softly before she sat up, taking one of the furs with her. "Oh don't get up yet," Jaime groaned as she rolled from the bed and stretched her arms up to the air, yawning.

Lyla just rolled her eyes again and threw the blanket at him, giggling when he scrambled to the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around her middle, dragging her back to him and plopping her on his lap. "Jaime!" She gasped as he nibbled on her shoulder, trailing his tongue on it. "I have to bathe!"

"Mmm, but you smell so sweet already." He murmured. The scent of honeyed almonds no longer clung to his wife, but that of sex and laughter and love.

Love- the word brought him back to the previous night, tangled with Lyla on the bed, holding her in his arms. "I think I might just love you, Jaime Lannister," she'd said just before she fell asleep, and he'd thought about it for what seemed hours before sleep claimed him as well.

He knew he felt strongly towards her, the pretty little wife of his, but was it love yet? He didn't know, and didn't dare say it before he knew exactly how he felt; Lyla deserved better than that.

"Jaime?" He looked to his wife and smiled, raising a brow to indicate for her to go on. "I really think we should bathe..." Lyla looked over to the bathroom and he sighed, nodding.

"Come on then," he said softly, lifting her up and carrying her over to the bathing chamber. It was freshly cleaned and stocked with fluffy towels and robes. Setting Lyla on the ground, he leaned on the wall and watched as she marveled at the giant copper tub and white tile floors.

She moved to the tub and graced her fingertips on the rim, then stepped up the three tiers that led to the mouth of it. He kissed her cheek and handed her a robe, pulling one on himself, and went back to the main room to call for a maid.

Carinya came through the door after he'd called three times carrying two buckets in each hand, full to the brim of hot water. "Don't get in a fuss, I'm here now," she said, pushing past him and making her way to the bathroom. "Don't you look happy, my lady," he heard the maid jest and he laughed.

"I should hope my wife is happy," Jaime said as he entered the room, where Carinya had already dumped the steaming water into the copper tub and scented it with Lyla's rosewater. "If you could have some food sent up, that would by wonderful, thank you."

"Of course, my lord, my lady." Carinya bowed and left the room, and Lyla looked up at him grinning.

"Come on, get in here," She said, tugging at the string that tied his robe to his body until it came undone. She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, sliding her robe off of her before diverging her body, head and all, into the water.

Jaime smirked. She was a card, this wife of his. "Alright," he said as he stepped up the tiers and slipped into the water, inhaling the scent of roses. He felt a hand grab his ankle and suddenly he was submerged in the tub, gasping.

He heard laughter above the water and pushed back up to the surface, wiping water from his eyes. "What was that?" He questioned, chuckling.

"Fun," she said simply, squealing when he wrapped his arms around her and swung her around in circles. She swatted his arm lightly and kissed him, once at first and then more and more. "Mm, this is fun too," she murmured against his lips, and he smirked.

"Yes, it is," he agreed, curling one of her soaked ringlets around his finger. She laughed lightly and pulled away, and he cupped her cheek with his palm. "Come, let's wash up."

* * *

The bath went by quickly and when they re-entered the main chamber the bedsheets had been changed, the bed made, and their clothes had been taken to be washed. There were two trays of food on the table by the balcony, the drapes pulled back and the sun shining through.

Lyla didn't even bother dressing as she went to the table and drank from one of the goblets with milk in it. Jaime went to the wardrobe and pulled out a simple blue doublet with cream breeches, pulling them on after he'd dressed himself in white smallclothes.

"No, no," Lyla called from across the room, where she sat at the table and ate strawberries. "The green one. It'll bring out your eyes." She stood and made her way to him, pulling out a doublet that was emerald silk with gold stitch work, holding it up to him and saying, "yes, wear this one."

He smiled and kissed her forehead, "I'm happy to indulge you." He pulled the blue tunic off and she slid the green one on, lacing the front and nodding.

"Better. Much better." She said before looking around the room. "Where are my gowns?" She asked raising a brow.

Jaime pointed to the bathroom, "Through there is a door. It's your bedroom, it'll have all your things; dresses, ribbons, stockings..." She stared at the bathing chamber for a while before she nodded, stepping towards the room.

He followed her, opening the door when she reached the conjoined chamber, watching her as she entered. There were banners with her House sigil on them, and everything was silver and white. It looked regal, like winter reborn. It was small, smaller than his own chambers by far, but lovely none the less.

She went to the wardrobe and opened it, gowns of all colors dripping out. There were silks and velvets and satins, all in an array of fashions. She touched the ones of grey and white, then those of violet and pink and yellow until she landed on one of river blue with whorls of ivory filigree and dagged sleeves lines in white.

"That one," Jaime said, leaning on the wall. "It'll bring out your eyes." She laughed slightly at his use of her own line on her, and pulled it from the cloakroom, along with fresh smallclothes. "Tell me, little wife, what's making you sad?"

Lyla sighed and looked around the room one last time before leaving it, Jaime in tow, closing the door. "It's so like home in there," she muttered, "and I'm not sure when I'll ever see Winterfell again."

"Oh, sweet girl," He held her in his arms and pressed his lips to her hair. "You will see your home again. I promise you. I'll take you there as soon as I can find reason." He assured her, rubbing her arms lightly. "I'll even take you to the Wall so you can see your bastard brother."

"Jon," she said softly, leaning into his embrace. "I'd like to see Jon again."

"And you will- in time. Come on, now, let's get you dressed." He took the dress from her and she slipped into her smallclothes, laughing when Jaime tickled her sides.

"Stop, stop please," she cried, squirming in his arms and pulling her gown from him, shimmying into it before he had time to tickle her again. "Can you fetch me a brush?" She asked, trying to lace the back of the gown.

He nodded and went to grab one. _She's right_, he thought as he opened the door to her chamber again, _it does look like Winterfell_. It was rustic and simple and hearty, with a rough cobble floor rather tiles or smooth stone. He looked around for a brush and saw the locket he gave her, placed carefully on the vanity, a silver plated brush beside it.

He remembered her reaction when he presented it to her; she was so happy she cried, even her younger sister with the bright red hair had shed tears as they looked at the portraits of their parents. He grabbed the necklace and the brush before heading back to Lyla.

"There you are; I was beginning to think you got lost in there," Lyla mused. She looked to have given up on lacing her dress and smiled brightly when he stepped into the room. "Would you mind..." She held the ribbons of her gown up and he chuckled softly.

"Not one bit, dearest girl," He murmured as he set the brush down. Lacing the gown was easy- he'd done it for Cersei often enough, and when he was done he pulled her curls back and clasped the locket around her neck, kissing the crook of it before he went back for the brush.

He took her hand and led her to the bedroom again, sitting her in a chair by the fireplace before taking the brush to her hair. "I can brush my own hair," She said lightly, chuckling, but Jaime just hook his head and insisted he could do it.

Being Lyla's husband was probably the easiest thing in Jaime's life. He had been a knight- the greatest in the Realm even, he had been a member of the Kingsguard, he had been nearly everything but a father, and being a husband was certainly the least demanding; especially since he was married to Lyla.

She was so simple and good-natured, never a burden and always trying to help. She wasn't as her aunt Lysa was, needy and whimpering constantly, but rather he needed her in a way. It was a queer thought, the Kingslayer needing anyone at all, but her fire and compassion had been something as a spark for Jaime, bringing him out of his selfish ways and directing him towards a new path.

He looked down at her, her eyes closed and a smile on her lips, as he brushed her hair out. She was so beautiful and he knew he didn't deserve her or her love, but he had it and he would try and make the best of it. He would treat her the way he wished Robert would treat Cersei or the way he wished Aerys would have treated Rhaella.

"I think it's as brushed as it'll ever be," Lyla mused, bringing him out of his mind.

"Oh, yes, sorry." Jaime set the brush down on the mantle and Lyla ran her fingers through her hair, brushed dry and curling calmly rather wildly because he'd ran the bristles through it for so long. "You look beautiful," He said as she stood and pressed down her skirts.

She smiled, "You don't look so bad yourself." Wrapping her arms around his waist, Jaime's little wife rested her head on his chest and he held her close.

"You'll be a good mother," He told her out of the blue. "I remember you with your brother in Winterfell, Rickon. You were good with him."

Lyla laughed looked up at him. "I had to be good with him, he didn't have anybody else."

"He had his other sisters, his brothers, his father... He chose you because you were best with him, cared the most. Just like you will with our babes." Jaime said, brushing back a strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. "And they'll all be named Tywin."

She snorted, remembering their conversation the night that Tywin arrived in King's Landing. "Yes," she said as she kissed his lips and pulled him towards the bed, "They'll all be named Tywin."

_*Hey all! Here's a little 'morning after' chapter for you to enjoy. We'll be on track with the real storyline starting next chapter and we'll see where it goes from there._  
_Is there anything you guys want to see specifically? Anything you want to request or characters you want to make sure I write in? Let me know!_  
_Hope you all enjoyed and I can't wait to hear from you- you lovely lords and ladies make my day. :) Have some great nights, everyone!_


	21. Chapter 21

Lyla and Jaime rode to the Hand's tourney on their coursers of blue roan and crystalline white.

Jaime was clad in shimmering ivory armor, a golden lion painted onto the breast plate, with a flowing cloak of crimson that colored the world behind him strapped to his shoulders; and Lyla was dressed to match. Her gown was of alabaster with shining gold lace and embroidery, ruby ribbons fastening her dress and corresponding red slippers on her feet. It was by chance, in fact, that they wore such complimentary clothing, but Lyla thought it was silly all the same.

There were pavilions being raised along the river in velvets and silks, ranging from the brightest of yellows such as they yellow that Sansa's litter was draped in, to the vivid violets were groups of squires were suiting up their lords.

Of the knights by the tent as green as her auburn haired sister's gown, Lyla recognized many. There was a Swann, a Caron, two Royce men, and six Freys; among them being Ser Jared of the Crossing, husband to the Lady Alys Frey, who Lyla discovered that morning was with child. Jared wasn't a homely man, he had thick dark hair and large brown eyes that looked a replica of Alys'. He seemed to love her well, too, for as they rode passed and Alys found her way to her husband, he lifted her and spun her, kissing her square on the mouth.

Lyla wondered if she and Jaime would ever be so in love. She wondered if he would ever want children with her as Jared did with Alys, or if he would be happy to learn if she was carrying or not._ Maybe he wouldn't care_, she thought, but shoved the idea away just as her husband reached a hand over and held hers.

"Do you see Lord Yohn Royce?" He asked, nodding to where the man stood, tall and brooding. "His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm." The armor indeed looked bronze; the bright orange tinted metal glimmering in the sun of the rich midday light, with the carved runes catching shadows.

Lyla nodded. "I remember him well. He came to Winterfell two years before. He stayed quite a while, if I recall." Beside Lord Yohn was Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, his helm adorned with the wings of an eagle; Karyn Mallister was with him, near his exact match with shiny brunette curls and sharp blue eyes, laughing with one of his guards and holding her fathers hand with care.

Missing her own father, Lyla mentally damned the king. He'd been a vicious man about keeping her father with him, Robert, and even today, a day he should share with his girls, he had been given a seat not far from the king. In Winterfell he'd always stayed with his children, and now it seemed he would rarely see them- or rather half of them- for more than two nights out of seven.

Jaime said something and she was pulled from her thoughts. Looking up at him from her seat on Morrow, she raised a brow. "I'm sorry?"

"I have to go now if I'm to enlist." He said, rubbing his thumb in small circles on the back of her hand. "Will you be alright? I've had you seated in the front row with your sister, Sansa. Arya told me she's to stay in for a dancing lesson today."

"I'm sure I'll manage," she said with a light smile, leaning up as he bent down and their lips met sweetly. She was glad he was to ride in the tourney; mostly to get a good measure of his skills with a lance, but also because she was excited that he was going to be doing what he loved. He began to ride off, but she called him back. "For luck," she told him as she tugged a silver ribbon with crimson filigree from her wrist and tied it to his bicep, between two pieces if armor.

He smirked down at her and claimed her lips once more. "Thank you, sweet wife of mine, I shall wear it with honor." He murmured on her lips before caressing her cheek and kicking his heels into his snowy steed, riding off to enter the lists.

She watched him go for some time before she noticed Sansa's litter catch up to Morrow and she spurred her stallion once again, cantering to where a stable hand was eagerly waiting to accept Lady Lannister's lead.

It still felt strange to Lyla, being titled as Lady Lannister, rather Lady Stark. She'd been married to Jaime slightly over a week now, and they'd been in their bedchamber for most of it, but every time she was out it seemed that servants and maids were jumping left and right to be courteous to her. Mayhaps it had been Tywin's doing, or mayhaps Petyr Baelish's, but whoever it was that decided she should be waited on as thus, she thanked them; it was nice to, every once in a while, let somebody wait on her.

The stablehand led Morrow to where a slew of other horses were roped and Lyla made her way to the stands, sitting in a spot she was directed to by a young girl that couldn't have been over five years of age. Looking to the lists, Lyla observed all. An exiled prince from the Summer Isles wore a cloak of emerald with ruby feathers, his skin as dark as night. Young Lord Beric Dondarrion stood near the prince, his red gold hair glittering like glass in the sun's light, black shield with lightening painted on it intimidating, but not so much as the Hound, who was clad in his mail and dog helm.

The charming Renly Baratheon, in his coat of green metal, leaned against a post and jested with Loras, who was dressed in armor that was array of rainbow-colored flowers and green everywhere else, a cloak of deep evergreen around his shoulders and three golden roses sewn to it to indicate that he was the third rose of Highgarden. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin of Winterfell stood in their rather bland blue-silver plate and flat grey cloaks, but they looked as hard as steel with determinations creeping into the lines of their faces.

Sansa found her then, with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole trailing after her. "Jory looks a beggar among these others," Septa commented shrewdly as she and the girls sat around her.

"Perhaps, but he'll ride well." Lyla said, beaming when her husband came into view. Jaime was running his hands through his golden hair, smiling and laughing with Ser Addam, his long time friend from Casterly Rock.

"But he does look handsome," Jeyne whispered in awe as Jaime's emerald eyes caught Lyla's and he winked. "And Lord Beric... Oh I could marry him right now."

Sansa and her friend began giggling and whispering then, and Lyla took to eying the grounds as they were being set up. The competition was well classed and she deemed that it would be an exciting round of jousts.

Jory began the tourney, riding against Horas Redwyne. He bested the oaf, as well as a Frey in his second round, though come his third, a free-rider named Lothor Brune won. Neither man lost his seat, but Brune's blows were better placed and his lance steadier, so Robert gave him the victory. Harwin and Alyn fared worse; Harwin was unseated his first tilt by Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, and Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann.

The jousting ran from morn to dusk, and Jeyne and Sansa had cried out for near each rider as they crashed together. She'd seen over a hundred lances shatter like glass and half as many men fall to the ground breathless; Jaime not among them. He'd been riding wonderfully, unhorsing Ser Andar Royce and the Marcher Lord Bryce Caron easily. His real challenge was Ser Berristan Selmy, though- white-haired and aged- who was as strong as the warhorse he rode, but her husband had won that battle as well.

Sandor Clegane and his horrifying brother Gregor were invincible, unseating each and every rider that they came across with vigor. Lyla's heart stopped for a moment when Gregor's lance pierced a knight from the Vale through the throat and killed him instantly. The blood flew everywhere and Lyla felt uneasy. She stood abruptly and made her way from the stands, heaving onto the grass. She normally wasn't so weak of stomach, and didn't know what came over her, but decided she was just hot- for the humidity of the South was still so foreign to her- and went back to her seat.

By the time she returned, the rounds had begun again and Jeyne Poole was being taken to her room by Septa Mordane. Ser Balon Swann fell to Gregor and Lord Renly to the Hound. A hedge knight in checkers disgraced himself by killing Lord Beric Dondarrion's horse and was declared forfeit. After Beric had switched his saddle to a new mount, a mare with long flowing waves of smoke grey and a body of onyx silk, he was unseated by Thoros of Myr, a red priest with flapping red robes and a close shaved head.

In the end it came down to four; Sandor Clegane, Gregor Clegane, Loras Tyrell, and Jaime.

Loras had been riding splendidly that day. His armor was beautiful and so was his horse; white as winter with a blanket of red and white roses delicately lain over its rump. After each victory, Loras would give a maiden a single white rose, until he unhorsed Ser Robar and trotted to the stands with a stunning crimson rose in his hand.

Beside her, Sansa was gripping the arms of her chair until her little knuckles turned white. "Sweet lady," Loras said in that wispy, gentle voice of his, "no victory is so half as beautiful as you." He held the rose out to Sansa, and she timidly accepted, inhaling the scent of it as she demurely tilted it up to her nose.

Lyla winked slyly to Loras, who tossed her three white roses and grinned at her. His hair was a mass of lazy chestnut curls and his eyes looked near as golden as Jaime's hair. When Lyla's eyes caught her husband, he was staring at she and Loras with raised brows and a grin of amusement tickling his lips. They both knew of Loras and Renly, but when she turned back to Sansa, it seemed her sister hadn't a clue.

A shadow cast down on them and Lyla knew it couldn't be from the sun- or rather lack thereof- and looked up. A man of short stature with grey-green eyes and a dark pointed beard stood before she and Sansa. "You must be one of her daughters," he said, eyes not lighting up like his mouth did. "You have the Tully look."

Lyla reached over and held her sister's hand in her own. "I'm Sansa Stark," said Sansa, who looked ill at ease. "I have not had the honor, my lord."

"No, but I have." Lyla said, eying Petyr Baelish warily. He wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird pin. "Sweet sister, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king's small council."

"Your mother was_ my_ queen of beauty once," Petyr said, and Lyla wrinkled her nose when she smelled the mint on his breath. "You have her hair, and both of you her eyes." Petyr fingered a lock of Sansa's auburn curls longingly before pursing his lips and abruptly turning away.

Turning to Sansa, she held a serious expression. "I don't want you to speak with him," She said just as the king called for the next three rounds to be held on the morrow. Lyla hadn't even realized how dark it had gotten; the stars were beginning to twinkle and the moon glowed above them, eerie and beautiful. Lords and Ladies fled from the stands, chirping of the days events and the jousts. More than once some one would stop Lyla to praise her on her husband's good skill with a lance, and she would smile and try to be as polite as possible, all the while feeling sick of being so close to so many people at one time.

* * *

The court moved to the riverside for the feast, and Lady Alys had found her and joined her by then, Sansa steering away with Septa Mordane. "Jaime held his own well," Alys said as they neared the tables that had been set. Six giant aurochs had been roasting for half the day, slowly spinning on spits while maids basted them with butter and other herbs. Benches and chairs had been raised outside the pavilions with plates piled miles high with sweetgrass and fruits and fresh-baked bread.

Where Sansa had sat in a place of high honor to the left of the raised dais beside where Robert sat with a very bored Cersei, Lyla decided to take a seat among the lesser lord and ladies with Alys. Music began playing as soon as the four finalists rode to the riverside on their various steeds. Loras slid from the saddle and went to the same table that Renly sat at, Sandor sauntered off to find beer, Gregor galloped away as soon as he'd arrived, and Jaime made his way to Lyla.

"It seems your favor has given me luck unimaginable, dearest girl." Jaime murmured to her as her wrapped his armored arms around her lifted her from the ground slightly, swinging her like she was a leaf in the warm breeze of autumn. The expanse of his plate was cool and Lyla invited it wholly, kissing where her lips rested at his neck.

"You did well today, the honor is yours not my ribbon's." She mused lightly as he set her down, smiling when his lips pressed to her cheek and he took a seat beside where she was sitting just seconds before.

As Jaime helped himself to a goblet of water, Lyla rested her head on his shoulder. She'd eaten only a morning meal that day, and heaved it onto the dried grasses by the stands, but the stench of the meat made her only want to vomit more, not eat. Her hand slipped into her husband's and she sighed, taking a cup of chilled water in her free hand and sipping from it to ease her stomach.

Across the table, Alys was eating enough for two, but she was glowing non the less. Her pale flaxen waves fell in clean, lovely curls that day, and her eyes were warm. Her hand lay on her stomach constantly, and when Jared came to her he placed his hand there too. "I'm so excited for you, Alys." Lyla said, smiling.

Her friend lit up and grinned. "Thank you. Jared and I are thrilled! We've been trying for so long, you see." She rubbed small circles on her tummy as if to prove her point, and Jared kissed her cheek repeatedly, lips curved to the night sky as he did so.

"Are you feeling well?" Jaime asked in a quiet whisper when Lyla shied away from the cutlery full of stew he held up for her to try.

"I'm fine," She said, giving him a smile as she kissed him and continued sipping her water. "I'm just not hungry is all."

He raised a brow, for he knew how much she could eat, but continued spooning stew into his mouth. Lyla laughed when some trickled down his chin and she wiped the dribble away with her thumb, leaning into him and smiling to herself when he pulled his cloak off and wrapped it over her shoulders to block out the gust of wind that tore through the small camp they'd set up.

Singers began settling in by the king's pavilion, singing requests and random sweet songs, filling the night with lively sound, and a juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. Robert's personal fool, a simpleton named Moon Boy, danced about on stilts, all in motley, jesting and musing and making fun of everyone, leaving Lyla wondering if he truly was simple. He sang to Septa Mordane about the High Septon, and the woman laughed so hard that she'd spilled wine on herself.

The prince seemed to be treating Sansa with all the courtesy he could muster. He clearly had an interest in her still, and she soaked in the glory that he bathed her in. He showered her with affection, gossiped to her as young girls did, and Sansa had forgotten all about the drunk Septa Mordane, who sat at her left.

As she observed them, bowls of sweetgrass and salads and soups were placed in front of her, but she waved it all away. When the meats came, she had to clench her jaw and look away before she flicked her wrist at a maid to take it away. To spare her, Jaime thankfully reserved from the meat as well, rubbing her arm with his hand from where it was draped over her shoulders.

Later, sweetbreads and pigeon pies were being handed out. Apples fragrant with cinnamon and sugar dipped lemon cakes were placed at the table, as well as Lyla's favorite apple tarts, and she couldn't stop herself from nibbling at one of each; lemon cake and apple tart. Jaime helped himself to three little lemon cakes and two pigeon pies, and she laughed at him. "How do you eat so much?" She asked, giggling.

"You wound me my lady," he jested back, gasping theatrically. "I've quite the appetite after throwing half a hundred men from their horses."

"As I expect you would." She mused, kissing him slowly. He tasted of sweet spices and honey, and she savored it. "Come, dance with me." She murmured against his lips. Alys and Jared had already twirled away, and Lyla desired nothing more than to feel the grass between her toes and be in Jaime's arms.

He nodded and stood, her slippers sliding from her feet as he took her with him and they instantly began swirling around the riverside. The ground was moist and she grinned wildly as they swung around, careless and free. "Mm, I don't deserve a woman like you," he hummed into her hair just before he lifted her into the air by the waist and spun her in the air.

"I most certainly deserve a man like you," Lyla said smirking as he slowly let her down.

He looked like he was about to answer when a strong, slurred voice broke through the music.

"_No_." Robert boomed like thunder, all other chatter dying away. He was standing, red faced, reeling. Wine filled the goblet in his left hand he was drunker than Lyla had ever seen him before. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed to his Queen, Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I _will fight_!"

Ser Barristan, Renly, and Petyr Baelish were all staring at him with unease, pursing their lips, but not one made to stop him. Cersei looked emotionless, paler than usual, and she stood with a vengeance, gathering her skirts of cream before storming off in silence, a slew of handmaids trailing her.

Jaime made to go to Robert, but Lyla grabbed his hand and shook her head at him, intertwining their fingers so he couldn't leave. The king was in no mood to deal with whatever Jaime would do.

Instead, Renly came to the rescue, smiling. "You've spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh goblet."

Lyla pursed her lips and looked to Sansa, who sat too close to the drunken king for her ease. "Come," she said to her husband as she went to Sansa. "It grows late. come, Sansa, I will escort you back to the Keep."

Prince Joffrey nodded to her auburn haired sister and kissed her hand before standing and leaving, muttering farewells over his shoulder as he went. Septa Mordane snored soundly beside them, head down on the wood of the tabletop, and Lyla thanked Jaime when he insisted he would carry the old woman back with them.

The king had gone off somewhere and half the benches were empty; the feast was over and so was the magic of the night.

The Keep was warm and welcoming, but Lyla tugged the corners of Jaime's cloak tighter around her all the same. He had gone off in the direction that Septa Mordane's room was while she and Sansa trekked up the steps of the Tower of the Hand. "Thank you for taking me back," Sansa said when they reached the door and Lyla smiled at her younger sister.

"Always, Sansa. Goodnight." She said, turning to leave.

"Lyla, wait!" She turned again and suddenly her sister's arms were around her. "I never thanked you or Jaime for Lady... so, thank you."

Lyla smiled once more and kissed Sansa's copper curls before stepping away. "He knows of your gratitude, you needn't worry." She said softly before Sansa nodded and slid into her chambers for the night. As she made her way back to her and Jaime's room, Lyla admired the moon from the open archways. It was round and perfect and as white as the snow she missed so much. She'd been so intent on watching the moon she didn't even realize that she'd already made it to her room.

When she opened the door, she was greeted by a blast of warm heat, the kindling glow of the fireplace lighting the room. She undressed quickly and didn't bother pulling a robe on or slipping smallcothes over her naked frame as she made her way to the bed where Rose lay. The direwolf's head shot up when Lyla came near, and she wagged her tail gently.

"You know he won't like if you're sleeping beside me and not him," She murmured softly to the wolf, who whined as if she understood and hopped from the bed no sooner than Jaime had stepped in, bolting the door behind him. He was carrying his breastplate under his arm and set it on his desk. It was as if he didn't notice she was there, and Lyla stood nude beside their bed watching him, silent as a mouse.

He pulled off each piece of armor quietly, then his tunic and breeches, until he was naked but for his smallclothes and her favor, which he untied with care and placed gently on the wood top. When he finally looked up, raking a hand through his golden waves, his eyes drank her like she was the Dornish red he loved so much. "How long have you been here?" He asked as he neared her, cupping her cheeks in both palms and bringing his face down to kiss her deeply.

"Not much longer than you. Come now, lets rest. You'll need it for tomorrow," She said when their lips parted, sitting on the bed and patting the empty space beside her. He crawled over her and plopped down at her side, pulling the furs over them and wrapping his arms tightly around her, lips touching the back of her neck though he wasn't kissing her.

Feeling tired and ill, Lyla welcomed the comfort of him holding her in his arms and turned to face him, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He felt so warm and he smelled of sweat and dirt and horses, but she liked it. She liked everything about him- was growing to love everything about him. She moaned softly into his bare chest and kissed him there. "Goodnight, love." She murmured into his skin.

"Goodnight, my dear," Jaime mumbled sweetly into her hair, holding her tighter as sleep curled around the two of them, the wolf and her sweet, gentle lion.

_*So, here is the first part of the tourney- all book canon. I'm sorry this is late, and I'm not sure when I'll update next as my laptop is infected with some strange virus right now... (never letting my brother use my things again, haha) so I used my mom's laptop to update this morning. Hope you enjoyed- I'll try and work in the requested characters as soon as I can!_  
_I can't tell you how inspiring it is to see all these reviews, follows and favorites- every single notification in my email makes me squee! I'm so lucky to have all of your support!_  
_Hope you have beautiful ends to your weekends, dears! :)_


	22. Chapter 22

"I stood vigil for him myself," Ser Barristan Selmy said as they looked down at the dead body. "He had no one else. A mother in the Vale, I am told."

In the gentle morning light, the knight looked as though he were sleeping. It was the knight from the day before who was slain by Ser Gregor's lance; a homely boy, though death became of him, evening out his rough-hewn features and the silent sisters had dressed him in his best velvet tunic, high of collar to hide his ruined throat. Lyla looked to her father, lost in thought, and then to Ser Barristan.

"That was good of you, Ser Barristan. I'm sure if he could, he would have thanked you," she said, giving him a comforting smile.

He nodded to her. "Hough was Jon Arryn's squire for four years," he said. "The king knighted him before he rode north, in Jon's memory. The lad wanted it desperately, yet I fear he was not ready."

"It would seem not," Lyla observed, tracing a finger over the deep green velvet.

Beside her, Eddard sighed. "None of us is ever ready," he said. He was tired, clearly, and he looked sore. She took his hand and gave him a smile, resting her head on his shoulder. Jaime woke her in the morning just before he went off with Ser Addam, and she decided to find her father after Carinya had finished dressing her in a gown of bright blue with a sash of rich crimson around her waist. He'd been in his solar when she found him, and he'd solemnly consented to let her join him for the day.

"For knighthood?" She asked him, brows knit together.

Eddard shook his head. "For death." He gently covered the young boy with his cloak, a bloodstained bit of blue bordered in crescent moons. She knew of what they had said to his mother, when she asked why her son had died, though Eddard was loath to it. They'd told her he had died fighting for the honor of the King's Hand. "This was needless. War should not be a game." Ned said before he turned to the woman beside the cart, shrouded in grey and face covered but for her brittle blue eyes. Silent sisters prepared men for the grave, and it was bad luck to look upon the face of death. "Send his armor home to the Vale. His mother will want to have it."

"It is worth a fair piece of silver," Ser Barristan said. "The boy had it forged special for the tourney. Plain work, but good. I do not know if he had finished playing the smith."

"He paid yesterday, my lord, and he paid dearly," Lyla replied to the white-haired knight.

Eddard nodded, looking to the silent sister. "Send the mother the armor, I will deal with this smith." She bowed her head.

Afterward, Ser Barristan and Lyla walked with Ned to the king's pavilion. The camp was beginning to stir. Cooks began sizzling fat sausages on the spit over the firepits and the air was scented of garlic and pepper. Young squires ran all around on errands for their masters as they woke, yawning and stretching, to meet the day. A serving man, who carried a plump goose under his arm, bent the knee when he saw them. "M'lords, m'lady Lannister," he muttered, the goose honking and pecking his fingers.

Shields displayed outside each tent to mark its occupant: the silver eagle of Seagard, Bryce Caron's field of nightingales, a cluster of grapes for the Redwynes, brindled boar, red ox, burning tree, white ram, triple spiral, purple unicorn, dancing maiden, blackadder, twin towers, horned owl, the pure white blazons of the Kingsguard, and finally a golden lion of Lannister on a field of blood, shimmering bright amongst the others.

"The king means to fight in the melee today," Ser Barristan said as they passed Ser Meryn's shield, its paint sullied by a deep gash where Loras Tyrell's lance had scarred the wood as he drove him from his saddle. Lyla nodded in confirmation, remembering the heat that embodied Robert as he asserted his dominance as King over Cersei.

"Yes," her father said, grim.

Ser Barristan looked troubled. "They say night's beauties fade at dawn, and the children of wine are oft disowned in the morning light."

"They say so," Ned agreed, "but not of Robert."

The king's pavilion was close to the riverside, and the morning mists of the river washed it in a grey cloak. It was all golden silk, the largest and the grandest structure in the camp. Outside the entrance, the king's warhammer was displayed beside and immense iron shield blazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

Ned had earlier expressed his hopes in finding King Robert asleep when they entered his tent, but as they walked in they found him drinking beer from a polished horn, howling at two young squires. One of them was Lancel. "Your Grace," one was saying, nearly in tears, "it's made too small, it won't go." Lancel just stared brutally. The younger of the two fumbled with the buckles, and the gorget he was trying to fasten around Robert's neck fell to the fur-covered ground.

"_Seven hells_!" Robert cursed. "Do I have to do it myself? Piss on the both of you. Pick it up. Don't just stand there gaping, Lancel, _pick it up_!" Lancel jumped from the mention of his name, taring his eyes from Lyla's, and the king finally realized they were there. "Look at these oafs, Ned. My wife insisted I take these two to squires for me, and they're worse than useless. Can't even put on a man's armor on him properly. Squires, they say. _I_ say they're swineherds dressed up in silk."

Lyla raised a brow and smiled at the king. "The boys are not at fault," she said to him. "You're too fat for your armor, Your Grace."

Robert took a long swallow of beer, tossed the empty horn onto his sleeping furs, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was dark when he spoke. "Fat? _Fat_, is it? Is that how you speak to your king?" His facade fell and he burst into a storm of laughter then, "Ah, damn you, girl, why are you right?"

The squires smiled nervously until the king turned on them. "You heard the lady. The king is too fat for his armor. Go find Ser Aron Santagar. Tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. _Now! What are you waiting for?_"

Lancel and the other were tripping over each other in their haste to be gone from their king. Robert had held his stern face for as long as need be, but then he fell into a plush chair, howling with laughter.

Ser Barristan chuckled along with Robert, and even her father smiled, but Lyla couldn't shake the disgusting feeling she had after seeing Lancel. He had such a hatred for her, when he was the one who did wrong. His eyes told all. His sandy hair and the wisp of a mustache made him fair of face, but his deep, emerald green eyes were aged and ugly and terrible- and to think she once thought them like Jaime's.

"Ah, I wish I could be there to see Santagar's face," Robert said. "I hope he'll have the wit to send them to someone else. We ought to keep them running all day!"

"Those boys," Ned asked him. "Lannisters?"

Robert nodded, wiping tears from his eyes. "Cousins. Sons of Lord Tywin's brother. One of the dead ones. Or perhaps the live one, now that I come to think on it. I don't recall. My wife comes from a very large family, Ned."

Her father's face fell, lost to thought. She knew what he was thinking without having to ask; there were far too many Lannisters in King's Landing, with ambitions higher than life. "The talk is you and the queen had angry words last night," he said.

The mirth curdled on Robert's face. "The woman tried to forbid me to fight in the melee. She's sulking in the castle now, damn her. Your sister would never have shamed me like that." His blue eyes traced to Lyla then and she felt unease crawl into her stomach, leaving her glad that she hadn't had a bite to eat yet.

"You never saw Lyanna as I did, Robert," Ned told him. "You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath. She would have told you that you have no business in the melee."

"You too?" The king frowned. "You are a sour man, Stark. Too long in the north, all the juices have frozen inside you. Well,_ mine_ are still running." Robert slapped his chest as if to prove a point.

"You are the king," her father reminded him.

"I sit on the damn iron seat when I must. Does that mean I don't have the same hungers as other men? A bit of wine now and again, a girl squealing in bed, the feel of a horse between my legs? Seven hells, Ned, I want to _hit_ someone."

Ser Barristan made his presence known once more. "Your Grace," he said, "it is not seemly that the king should ride into the melee. It would not be a fair contest. Who would dare strike you?"

Robert seemed truly startled at the information. "Why, all of them, damn it. If they can. And the last man left standing..."

"...will be you," Lyla finished for him. The king looked baffled. The dangers of the melee were only a savor to Robert, but this touched on his pride. "Ser Barristan is right. There's not a man in the Seven Kingdoms who would dare risk your displeasure by hurting you."

Robert rose, face flushing like the rose that Loras had given Sansa the day before. "Are you telling me those prancing cravens will_ let me win_?"

"For a certainty," Ned said, and Barristan bowed his head silently.

For a simple moment, Robert looked as crazed as a Targaryen. He didn't speak, striding across the tent, whirling around, striding back, his eyes dark and his expression worse. He snatched up his breastplate and threw it at Barristan Selmy with a wordless fury. Selmy moved just slightly, dodging it. "Get out," the king hissed then, cold. "Get out before I kill you."

Ser Barristan left quickly, and Lyla was about to leave with her father when the king called them back. "Not you two."

When her father turned again, Robert grabbed his horn, filled it with ale from a barrel, and thrust it at him. "Drink," he said.

"I've no thirst-"

"_Drink_. Your king commands it. Girl, come sit with me."

Lyla bowed her head slightly and obeyed just as her father did, sitting beside the king as Ned wrinkled his nose and swallowed some of the black beer. "Damn you, Ned Stark. You and Jon Arryn, I loved you both. What have you done to me? You were the one who should have been king, you or Jon."

"You had the better claim, Your Grace," Ned said quietly.

"I told you to drink, not argue. You made me king, you could at least have the courtesy to listen when I talk, damn you. Look at me, Ned. Look at what kinging has done to me. Gods, too fat for my armor, how did it come to this?"

"Robert..."

"Drink and stay quiet, the king is talking. I swear to you, I was never so alive when I was winning this throne, or so dead as now that I've won it. And Cersei... I have Jon Arryn to thank for her. I had no wish to marry after Lyanna was taken from me, but Jon said the realm needed an heir. Cersei Lannister would be a good match, he told me, she would bind Lord Tywin to me should Viserys Targaryen ever try to win back his father's throne." Robert shook his head slowly. "I loved that old man I swear it, but now I think he was a bigger fool than Moon Boy. Oh, Cersei is lovely to look at, truly, but_ cold_... the way she guards her cunt, you'd think she had all the gold of Casterly Rock between her legs. Here, give me that beer if you won't drink it." He took the horn back and drank until it was empty, belched, and wiped his mouth. "I am sorry for the troubles on the King's Road, Ned. Truly. And you, girl. About almost killing the wolves, I mean. My son was lying, I'd stake my soul on it. My son... you love your children, don't you?"

Ned looked to Lyla and nodded. "With all my heart."

"Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that's what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers will love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?"

Her father looked at the king awkwardly. "He's just a boy," he said. "Have you forgotten how wild you were at his age?"

"It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned You don't know him as I do." He sighed and shook his head. "Ah, perhaps you are right. Jon despaired of me often enough, yet I grew into a good king." There was an eerie silence in the room and Lyla looked to her father. "You might speak up and agree now, you know." Robert said.

"Your Grace..." Lyla began, trying to save her father from the king.

Robert patted Lyla on the shoulder and slapped Ned's back. "Ah, say that I'm a better king than Aerys and be done with it." He looked to Lyla. "He never could lie for love nor honor, your father. I'm still young, and now that you're here with me, things will be different. We'll make this a reign to sing of, and damn the Lannisters to seven hells- but for Lyla here. I smell bacon. Who do you think our champion will be today? Have you seen Mace Tyrell's boy? The Knight of Flowers, they call him. Now there's a son any man would be proud to own to. Last tourney, he dumped the Kingslayer on his golden rump, you ought to have seen the look on Cersei's face. No offenses girl, but I laughed till my sides hurt. Renly says he has this sister, a maid of fourteen, lovely as a dawn..."

* * *

Lyla indulged Robert on his curiosities of Lady Margaery, having known her for years, and they went to break their fasts. There was black bread and boiled goose eggs and fish fried up with onions and bacon, at a table near the riverside, and Lyla listened dearly as her father and the king recounted on their boyhoods.

She ate hungrily, surprisingly, for how ill she'd felt when she woke to Jaime's soft kisses on her arm. She'd had toasted brown bread with a slap of butter and honey drizzled over it, orange-basted chicken with blossom salad, and two of the small chicken eggs, hard boiled and salted lightly, all washed down with a cup of milk.

Robert went on about his battles, winking to Lyla as he did, and she thought she hadn't had such a fun morning in nay on a week.

Lyla walked with Ned and Robert to the jousting field, but she'd made her father promise to watch the final tilts with she and Sansa; Septa Mordane was out ill, though Lyla knew that she must have been as hungover as a green boy. As her father saw the king to his seat upon the raised wooden dais, Lyla went to where she sat the day before, where Sansa was already seated, eagerly awaiting the days festivities. Jeyne Poole wasn't in sight, so Lyla took a seat just beside her sister.

"Good morn, Sansa," she said warmly, patting her sister's hand. Sansa just smiled back though and turned her face towards the lists once more, awaiting Loras, no doubt.

Eddard found them just as the horn blew to begin the days tilts, taking a seat on the other side of Sansa, who was clearly engrossed in the joust that lay at hand.

Sandor Clegane was the first to appear, wearing soot-grey armor with an olive colored cloak and his thick dog helm. He was to ride against Lyla's husband, and she bit her lip. Sandor looked fierce that day, and when Jaime left he looked half so confident as the man on the grounds now. Just as she thought of him, her husband rode up; he was adorned in ruby armor with gold trim, riding a blood bay stallion that day to compliment his choice of plate. His lance, fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles, glittered in the sunlight.

She cheered for him and he blew a kiss her way, winking slyly as he lowered his visor and rode to the end of the lists. "A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger called to the crowd as Jaime's squire worked to fix a shield to his arm.

"Done," Lord Renly shouted back. "The Hound has a hungry look about him this morning."

"Even hungry dogs know better than to bit the hand that feeds them," Petyr said dryly, taking a seat beside Lyla but not saying a word to her.

Sandor Clegane dropped his visor without care, the sound much like a snapping bone, and took his position. The horses broke into a gallop that caused the stands to tremble, and Lyla wished she'd been awake enough to tie her favor to Jaime's arm that morning. Th Hound leaned forward as he rode, his lance as steady as any could be, but Jaime shifted in his seat deftly the instant before impact, the lance instead smacked into the shield of gold with the lion blazon on it though his own hit square. Sandor slipped back in his seat but fought to stay atop it, wood shattering and chips flying all around. Sansa gasped and Lyla cheered along with the crowd, standing and clapping.

"I wonder how I ought to spend your money," Littlefinger called down to Renly.

The Hound had only just managed to stay atop his warhorse. He jerked on Stranger's reins roughly and rode hard back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime laughed confidently with his squire as he tossed down his broken lance and was given a fresh one. They both took off running once more. Both lances exploded, and by the time the splinters had settles Lyla watched as her husband's blood bay trotted riderless. Jaime lay in the dirt, armor dented and coughing.

"I knew the Hound would win," Sansa said quietly, and Lyla nodded. She'd known too. She clutched her favor in her hands and stood to go help Jaime when his golden lion helm was twisted too far for him to pull off and he strode around blindly, looking for _something_. The crowd was hooting and the high lords and ladies tried hard to stifle their laughter, even Lyla found herself chuckling as she grabbed Jaime's hand and led him away to the blacksmith. She would hear of the other tilts later from her father or Sansa.

"You great silly fool," she murmured to him, rubbing his arm affectionately as the smith worked to free his head. When the helm had to be cut from him, Lyla giggled and allowed the smith to trim at it- carefully, of course- though Jaime muttered about how stupid it all was.

The helm was removed safely and Lyla kissed him as soon as she caught sight of his lips. "If I'd have had your favor, I'm sure that I would have won. It's a lucky piece of cloth I swear it." Jaime told her, running his thumb along her cheek.

She rolled her eyes and took the favor from her hands, tying it to his arm. "Better late than never," she said, grinning.

After Jaime had been unarmored and dressed in fresh garb of pale green with gold filigree, they walked back to the stands, where Loras and Gregor Clegane were about to run. Ser Gregor's horse was angrily pawing at the ground, shaking his head and whinnying loudly. Lyla took a seat beside her father this time, rather back beside Littlefinger, and Jaime next to her. The horse reared and nearly threw the Mountain from the saddle.

Loras saluted the king, rode far to the end of the list, and crouched his lance, ready. "Loras!" The crowd cheered, and Lyla threw a happy smile at her old friend. Gregor brought his beat to line and it began suddenly. The Mountain's stallion broke a hard gallop, wild, while Loras' mare ran with a gate as silken as water, jolting full speed. Ser Gregor struggled to keep his steed in line and hold his lance and suddenly Loras was on him, placing the point of his lance just _there_. Before Lyla had time to gasp, the Mountain had fallen from his mount, the horse going down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh.

People cheered and sang their praises, but Lyla just held Jaime's arm tight, knowing that it couldn't end well. Loras reined back up to the lists, his lance unbroken. The commons went wild for him as he lifted his sapphire encrusted visor and gave a bright, charming smile to all.

Meanwhile, Gregor disentangled himself from his stallion and came to his feet, raging and red of face. He threw off his helm, black as night, and shouted to his squire for his sword to be brought to him, and so the boy obeyed. The horse had gotten to its feet by then- but didn't stay on them for long as Gregor slammed the steel into its neck and it went down, screaming in a fury. It was all silent but for a few terrified screams and the Mountain went after Loras. "Stop him!" Lyla and Eddard shouted in tandem, but by then the masses began hollering and yelling; Sansa was crying.

Loras shouted for his sword and Lyla stood, clutching the railing, feeling as if she was going to wretch out all of her morning meal. Gregor flung the squire aside and grabbed the reins of Loras' mare, swinging aimlessly at the Knight of Flowers. Loras fell to the dirt, his steed running off in a fright, and as Gregor's sword lifted up to steal the killing blow, a voice from the crowds screamed, "_Leave him be_!"

Gregor swung around in an arch behind him, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed like an eternity the two brother stood hammering at each other as a dazed Loras Tyrell was helped to safety. "_STOP THIS MADDNESS_," came Robert Baratheon's stern voice as he boomed over the cries in the stands. "_IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING_!" Twenty swords swung out at Gregor and Sandor, and the crowd hushed quickly.

Sandor bent the knee just before Gregor's sword sliced his head from his body, the sword hitting the air and at last the Mountain came to his senses. Glaring at the king, Ser Gregor threw down his sword and wordlessly turned and strode off. "Let him go," Robert commanded, and then that was that.

"Is the Hound the champion now?" Sansa asked their father.

"No," Jaime answered. "There will be one final joust between the Hound and the Knight of Flowers."

But Sansa had the right of it, and Loras came to Sandor's side, liquid gold eyes wide. "I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser."

"I am no ser," the Hound sneered, but accepted the victory all the same, as well as the champion's purse, and for what Lyla figured was the first time in his life, he accepted the love of the commons. They cheered soundly as he turned back to his pavilion, Loras bowing to him.

The day went on. A boy from the Dornish Marshes won the archery competition, and Thoros of Myr, in all his crimson glory, won the melee after three long hours. Lyla went with Jaime back to the Keep after the tourney was done, feeling just as tired as he, and kissed her father and her sisters goodbye, riding back to the city on Morrow's back.

To the stablehand's credit, her stallion was in good shape, well worked and scrubbed until he shone like blue-grey metal. Jaime rode the blood bay steed from earlier, rubbing its withers softly. "You rode well today," Lyla praised him, taking his hand and kissing the back of it.

"I could have ridden better by far," he replied, rolling his endless green eyes. He took her hand in his own and smiled down at her as they dismounted. "Are you sure you're not sick? You've seemed it lately... I could call for a maester?"

Lyla shook her head. "There won't be any to call this late anyways... In the morning I'll let one examine me as thoroughly as he pleases, but please can we sleep tonight?"

Jaime looked at her for long, even as he held his arm out for her and she laced her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I want you checked out tonight, Lyla. I'm worried..." He kissed the top of her head and pursed his lips. His concern was endearing and she sighed, defeated.

"Fine," She said, blunt. She felt tired, and just wanted to rest, but would allow Jaime's worries to be subsided. He smiled softly in thanks and they made haste in reaching their chambers, calling Carinya to fetch a maester as Lyla pulled a ribbon from her hair and loosed the plait it was in, wild curls flying all about her.

Jaime began undressing and pulled a thick velvet robe on over his smallclothes, Lyla doing the same. He went to the bathing chamber to freshen up before bed when the maester came.

It was Maester Frenkin, holding a large oak chest under his arm. He bowed and nodded to her, "My lady," he said as he placed the trunk on the table by the balcony. Carinya excused herself and with Jaime in the bathroom, it was just Lyla and the maester. He rolled his long, dagged sleeves up as best he could and eyed her. "You don't look sick."

"I'm sure I'm not," she replied as he placed his palm to her forehead. "But my husband worries." Maester Frenkin nodded and asked her to stick out her tongue. She did, but not before raising a brow in question. He popped the trunk open and pulled out a fresh sliver of wood, then pressed it down on her tongue as he inspected the insides of her mouth.

He frowned and she furrowed her brows. "Is something wrong?" She asked once he was away from her mouth. Instead of answering, he asked permission to touch her back, and she cautiously exposed it to him from under her robe. The cold flat of his palm graced a few spots on her back and asked her to cough- she did.

The maester shook his head. "You've got a slight fever, my dear."

"Slight fever?" She almost laughed. "In this sweltering heat, you're telling me I've caught cold? I haven't had one since I was a little girl, back in Winterfell."

"I'm sure it's just due to the change of temperature- every ones body reacts differently, at different times. I'll leave this," he pulled a fair sized bottle the color of cream from his trunk. "Drink some in your milk every morning and some with water every night, and you'll be good as new, my lady. If you need more, how ever long this sickness will stick to you, you need just call for me."

She nodded, still chucking to herself. "Sick," she snorted softly, looking to where Jaime had stepped back into the room, washed off and redressed in his robe. "I have a bloody fever."

Jaime laughed too then, and the maester gave her a toothy smile before packing his trunk up and bidding them farewell for the night, reminding her to drink from the vile every morning and every night, only the smallest amount. "A fever," Jaime said, as if he couldn't believe it.

"It's silly, truly," Lyla agreed, blowing out a few of the fat wax candles before poking the fire and crawling into bed with her husband. She didn't curl up close to him, for the fear he might catch her sick, but he damned it when she voiced her reasons, pulling her across the bed and onto his torso.

"Don't be stupid, sweet girl. I couldn't sleep without you if I tried," he murmured, kissing her lips softly.

She laughed and cupped his cheek in her palm. "Goodnight," she said, pressing her mouth to the tip of his nose.

Sleep came easily enough, wrapped in Jaime's warm arms, and that night she dreamed of Winterfell for the first time since she'd arrived in King's Landing.

_*Hey all! I'm very excited about getting on track with the canon plot line now, for I've so many ideas written up that I just can't wait to write for you! Just letting you know, the next few updates will be very plot driven... Still no laptop to call home, but eventually I'll get a new one._  
_Hope this chapter isn't disappointing and that you're all baring with me, because this will be one bumpy ride._  
_Have a great morning, my lovely lords and ladies, and enjoy your weekends!_


	23. Chapter 23

It was beautiful in the gardens; the trees were in full bloom with fruits swelling on the branches, flowers blossoming left and right in pastels of all sorts, and as they rested in the shade and watched the prince and princess bathe in the shimmering sunlight until their skin glowed like facets of diamonds, Jaime thought he couldn't have been more content.

Lyla lay wrapped under his arm, curled to his body in a thin yellow silk gown with her thick curls spiraling around her, her head on his chest and her arms holding him close. She was tired from her sickness of nearly two weeks, but her strength was quickly returning to her, enough so that she was able to entertain the children for the day. Myrcella and Tommen were mere feet from them, sitting on a thick blue blanket with a basket full of treats from the kitchens, playing tea party at the princess' insistence.

"More tea, Tommen?" Myrcella asked, lifting the ivory teapot, her little finger pointed to the sky.

Tommen wrinkled his nose at the scent of it as wind blew the air of the tea into his face, but Myrcella narrowed her eyes and he quickly nodded, shoving his glass cup out to her. Lyla laughed under her breath and Jaime kissed her forehead.

They'd now been married nearly three weeks, a whole moon's turn by the time her name day came upon the next few days, and he'd loved every moment of it- even through her sickness. She was a simple woman with little needs, even when sick, and it made it all the easier to appreciate her. Cersei had been demanding and even when she got what she wanted, she asked for more, but Lyla only took what she needed and nothing else. It was easy to dote on a woman who didn't crave it, but relished in it.

"Myrcella, can I have some sugar cubes?" Asked Tommen, who looked down at his plain tea with distaste, lips puckered as though he'd already suckled on its bitterness.

"No," said the princess in return. "Ask nicely, like I taught you."

The little prince rolled his eyes, green as grass, and reached for the sugar himself. His sister swatted his hand, however, and he retreated it. "Alright! May I please have some sugar cubes, my lady?" He huffed, face scrunched up in irritation.

Myrcella grinned brightly and passed the plate of pristine white sugar cubes to her brother. "Yes, you may," she said sweetly, and he felt Lyla smile into his silk green top.

"I've never been one for tea," his wife murmured as she sat up, resting her hands in her lap.

Jaime nodded. "I hate it," he admitted, chuckling softly as Tommen dripped some of the tea onto the blanket and Myrcella glared at the spot and then him.

"Uncle Jaime, will you and Aunt Lyla ever have a daughter? I can't play tea with Tommen or Joff..." She trailed off at the mention of her elder brother's name and Jaime binked, shocked, looking down at his wife.

Lyla looked shocked too, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. She turned to Jaime and then back Myrcella, laughing. "I don't know, princess. It may be a few months, a few years... It takes time to make babies." Her hand went to her stomach and she patted it before laying it over Jaime's. He curled his fingers through the empty spaces between hers.

"I want you to have a boy. That way I can play knight with somebody." Tommen looked down and sighed, and Myrcella reached over to take his hand in hers. The price and princess had a strong relationship, both being ignored by their parents and relying on each other for love and support. It was much like his own relationship with Cersei, only theirs had turned to something it should never had been.

He looked down when he heard Lyla exhale, and she scooted from him slightly, opening her arms wide to the children. Tommen's eyes shot up and he smiled so brightly that Jaime's heart twisted. He rose and toddled to where Lyla held her arms out and curled himself onto her lap. Myrcella watched, hesitating before joining her brother resting on the grass beside her, in between she and Jaime.

His wife looked so natural with a child on her lap, and he observed intently as she ran her fingers through Tommen's gold waves and rubbed Myrcella's back. "You're going to have a cousin one day, I promise. Maybe two or three," Lyla said, pressing her lips to his forehead.

"What about five?" Myrcella asked, innocent green eyes glinting as the sun rose higher.

"Five is rather a lot," Lyla said, raising her brows.

"Your mother had six," the princess pointed out, folding her arms decidedly.

"Aye, my mother did have six," his wife agreed, and Tommen sprawled out on her lap, yawning. "And your mother had three, and her mother before her three."

Myrcella's golden brows knit together. "My mother never talks of my grandmother. I never got to see her... I asked grandfather once, but he got so angry." She trailed off and Jaime placed a hand on her shoulder.

"He's still heart broken, dear girl," he said, kissing the top of her golden head. "It doesn't help that you look just like her, either."

The princess beamed immediately, smiling and leaning into his chest, scooting closer to him. "But grandmother was beautiful," she said in awe. "Am I truly like her?"

He nodded and raised both brows when the little girl crawled onto his lap- Cersei had never allowed such a close proximity. "Exactly. I still remember her from when I was a boy." Jaime turned sad then, but laughed is surprise when Myrcella wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close, giggling her thanks. When he glanced to his wife, Tommen had fallen asleep in her lap and she was toying with his golden waves, leaning on the tree behind them and humming softly.

He remembered hearing her hum before, and sighed at its sweet sound, holding Myrcella in his arms awkwardly as he twisted his seat on the grass to lean closer to Lyla. She looked up at him and smiled warmly, curling into his body as best as she could with Tommen softly snoring on her. She was a sweet sight, laying in the shade of a plum tree, surrounded by flowers and holding the child so close in the calm of the early noon, hand interlocking with his.

Myrcella's eyes were shutting slowly and Jaime rocked her back and forth as he'd seen Cersei done with Joffrey and the milkmaids with the prince and princess. When she was asleep, he rested his head back, feeling as her little chest rose and fell and her waterfall of sunshine began to twist in the wind. "You're natural with her," he heard Lyla comment softly, and he turned his head to face her.

"Am I quite?" He looked down at the sleeping Myrcella, arms curled around his neck and body hanging on his. He thought it must have looked awkward to see him with a child, so content. "Not as natural as you with the prince," he said, "I think he rather enjoys you."

"I enjoy him too. He's very sweet. They both are." She unlaced their fingers and ran her palm down the princess' arm absentmindedly. "Jaime?"

"Hm?"

"Do you truly want any? Children, that is..." She was staring at the prince now, who yawned in his sleep and wrapped his arms around her waist, smiling through his dreams.

He furrowed his brows. "Why not," he said, taking her hand again. She rolled her eyes at that answer, and he pressed his lips to hers softly. "All with brown hair and blue eyes, I hope," he mused, grinning. "I enjoy your looks too much for my own good, it would only be better to have a little one with them."

"Really, though, Jaime. I'm being serious. Do you want children?" She asked.

"I want children," he assured, giving her a smile, "and I want them with you. There will be no doubting that, yes? You're my wife, Lyla." He raised his hand up and cupped her cheek. "Come, lets get these two to their rooms."

* * *

They'd walked with a child each in their arms, Myrcella clinging to her uncle and Tommen to his aunt. Once they were safely tucked into their own rooms, Jaime and Lyla had reverted back to their chambers, the balcony doors open and the drapes swaying in the slight breeze as the hot day cooled. Jaime sat at his desk and stayed hunched over papers while his wife sat before him and watched.

"Must you really do all of this work? It seems so laborious..." Lyla traced her fingertip gently over the feather pen. "You've been writing for the past hour, Jaime."

He looked up, raising a brow. "I'm making sure that Casterly Rock has provisions to accommodate us when we travel there," he told her, nodding down at the countless papers on his desk. "We've already spent nearly a moon of the three that we have left in King's Landing, dear.

Lyla frowned, eyes clouding. "Already so many weeks? I'd nearly forgotten that night..." He knew she meant their dinner with Tywin the night before the wedding, where she agreed to leave in three months time, and set his quill down when she looked away towards the setting sun. The gold and crimson washed over her and her river blue eyes melted into a deep blood ruby, the red hues in her curls enhanced.

"We'll be here to celebrate your name day with them," he reminded her, reaching out and taking her hand in his. It was so soft and tender, molding so well with his. "And we can ride to visit every name day after. Mayhaps I can invite them to the Rock. We'll hold a feast and..."

"... Jaime, I don't want a feast." Lyla rose and pulled her hand from his, turning from him and resting her head on the wall.

He stood too, though his mind bid him return to the paperwork he needed to finish within the hour and send out as soon as possible. "What is it, Lyla?" He asked, moving in front of her and resting his hand on her cheek. She leaned away from it though and sighed. "Don't hide from me again, sweet girl. I've only just seen you."

She looked up and spared the slightest smile before looking down again. He felt his heart twist and his stomach churn at her expression of sadness and wondered if that was what Robert Baratheon felt whenever he saw Lyanna upset. "I miss them already. My family and I... We're so close Jaime. I'm scared of losing that. Of seeing them once a year and still having nothing to talk about... What of Jon? He promised he would write and I've only gotten one letter. Theon promised... I haven't gotten any from Theon... I'm already becoming a stranger." As she went on her voice began to falter and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, rubbing her back.

"Shh. Lyla I told you, I'll take you to see them. I will, truly. Come, darling, don't be so sad. Am I such horrible company?"

Jaime felt his wife release a soft chuckle against his chest as she reached her arms up and around his neck, holding him as she had the day they first kissed. "Not always," she said softly, leaning into him as he walked them towards the bed and laid her down, sitting on the edge. "Will you take me to see them whenever I want? Or have them see us? Do you mean it?"

"I would promise it a hundred times, Lyla." Her smile melted him and he leaned down to wipe a silvery tear from her eye, back to their sparkling blue now that they lay in the shade of their bed. "You know, it doesn't _have_ to take months and years to make a child..." he whispered, trailing his finger up her ankle to her navel, kissing it until she giggled and shoved his head away.

"Does it not?" She raised a brow in jest and smirked, placing her hands on either side of his face and pulling him in for a kiss. Her lips were salty from her tears but he enjoyed them nonetheless, nibbling at them and running over them with his tongue. She arched her body against his and he grabbed her hands with his, lifting them and holding them above her head.

"It does not," he hummed to her, suckling gently on her neck, marking her as his and his alone. "Not if we try. I'll show you how." She laughed, but it soon died down as he ran his hands along the sweet curves of her body and moved to her laces, pulling at them desperately.

Lyla knew what he meant to do and simply ripped the corset of her gown in the front, sliding it off. "I never liked yellow," she said with a grin as he tore the rest of the gown from her and tossed it across the room. Her naked form was evident before him and his brow arched.

"Too hot for smallclothes this morn?" He asked, pressing his lips to the mark that was darkening on her neck, sliding down to the hollow of her throat and then her collarbone.

"Too impatient," his wife breathed, and he smirked into her teat as he took it in his mouth and she gasped. "_Gods_."

Her nipple was growing in his mouth and he toyed with it with his tongue, cupping the other breast with his free hand and rubbing it gently. Her skin tasted sweetly of roses and smelled even more so, and he knew he must smell the same; he might have been marking Lyla as his own ostentatiously, but his wife was far more subtle, having him bathe in the scent he'd only ever known her to wear.

As Jaime began to lower himself on her, she sat up and took his head in her hands. "No," she said softly, shaking her head so her curls swayed. "Lay down." He furrowed his brows and hesitated until she commanded him again. "Lay down, Jaime."

He complied, lying beside her with his arms at his side. His erection was obvious against his stick straight frame and he wondered what she was doing until he felt her straddle him and press sweet kisses down his torso and to his pelvis. "What are you doing?" He asked, head tilting in question.

"I'm pleasing you the way you please me," she told him, positioning herself between his legs.

"How can we possibly _try_ when your down there?" He questioned, pausing slightly.

"I guess we'll know when we get to that point, won't we?" She flicked her tongue across his pelvis coyly. "Don't bother arguing," she added, winking and taking him in her hand. The embrace of her palm and fingers to his shaft was warm and welcomed, and he couldn't help but grunt slightly.

Her hand pumped slowly, tenderly, and when he felt her lips touch the tip of him, he clenched the sheets with his hands, holding them tightly. Slowly, she lowered her mouth onto him, getting as low as the full head before pulling back up. It was so moist and felt so nice that he pursed his lips and watched her, waiting for her to take him with her sweet mouth again.

However, she glanced up at him and her innocent smile turned to a smirk; she knew what she needed to, to know that she'd had him in the palm of her hand- quite literally. She stuck her tongue out slowly and traced the tip of it along the growing length of his erection before taking the tip of it in her mouth again and he shivered.

"Do you enjoy this?" She questioned quietly, pumping him once more, dangerously light of hand.

"Too much," he muttered, breathless. "But I believe you take more in your mouth, dear." She flushed slightly before a look of steel determination smoothed her features and she stared at his cock as though it were a obstacle to overcome.

She ran her tongue along the length again, longer and covering more space now, and when her mouth covered his shaft it got a little further than the middle, her tongue toying with the amount that filled her mouth. She didn't bother releasing him from the constraints of her opening fully before she went down again, going even further.

His throat rippled and he groaned, one of his hands removing itself from the sheet and locking into his wife's soft brown curls. As her tongue played with his erection and her mouth moved up and down the length of it, it slid over a tender spot and he gasped loudly, moaning. "Please," was all he had to utter as she ran her tongue over the spot again and again, never staying the movement of her mouth.

Her teeth would hit him every once in a while, but she was otherwise a natural at what she did, just as she seemed to be a natural at everything, and he began thrusting into her mouth slightly, her tongue flicking over the spot.

Lyla reached a hand up to the one he had interlocked in the bed covers and held it as she worked below his waist, pumping with her fist and her mouth. He hadn't felt it _this_ way; so coy and shy and blissful, and he relished in the feel. "I'm close," he warned, knowing he wouldn't last much longer with her mouth over his cock, and he pulled her up, flipping them over and waiting for her to nod before thrusting himself inside of her.

She was wet and ready, tight as a maid still, and he could have finished then, but forced himself to hold on. She wrapped herself close to him and he reached a hand down between them, rubbing her softly as he moved inside of her, rhythmic at first but then more desperately.

"Jaime," she gasped as his fingers locked around the nub that contained all her pleasure. "Oh _gods_." She pushed against him as he fucked her, fingers curling into his long golden waves. He lost all control as she rolled her hips against him in a way that increased the tight proximity and her walls began closing as he rubbed the pleasure point between his fingers, and spilled himself inside of her, continuing to thrust into her even after, still hard for a while but slowly softening.

When he could no longer continue to thrust, he simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled out, laying beside her. "Don't use the chamberpot after this," he told her, "not for at least a few hours. And don't clean yourself off." She nodded and looked up at him with a bright grin.

"We're really doing this," she said as though she didn't believe it. "We're really trying."

Jaime kissed her softly, smiling against her lips as he nodded. "I'll never get any work done when I'm with you, will I?" They both looked at his desk, full of parchment and ink and quills, and laughed.

"No, I'm afraid not," she whispered to him, pulling furs over their naked forms. "But I'm sure if we keep trying like this, you won't mind nearly half as much as you think you do."

* * *

Jaime didn't know when he fell asleep, only that by the time he woke up the balcony doors were closed, the fireplace was ablaze, and Lyla was sitting at his desk, taking pen to paper.

"Good, you're awake," she said, not looking up from her parchment. It was bright out, brighter than before, and he felt as his brows knit together.

"How long have I been asleep?" He asked, sitting up and rubbing his head, wave of gold catching in his fingers.

"Long," his wife replied, pausing her writing for a moment to look up at him with a knowing smirk before resuming her work. "I didn't know I could please you enough to make you sleep so well. You've been out since early evening yesterday."

He rubbed his eyes, feeling sleep fall from them. "And what time is it now?"

She looked up again and grinned even more wickedly. "It's early evening."

Early evening? It couldn't be. Jaime eyed his wife more carefully and noticed that she'd bathed, freshly since her hair was still in damp curls around her face, and the yellow gown was discarded, a new one of deep crimson laced to her slight form instead, her silver locket clasped to her neck. He was about to ask why she didn't wake him, but since he'd been caring for her for two weeks throughout her sickness this was the most refreshed he'd woken. "What are you writing?" He asked instead.

"Letters. This one is to Jon, the others," she gestured at a handful of rolled and sealed- with the Lannister sigil- letters, "are for my family in Winterfell." She trailed off, beginning to write again. When she finished and rolled the letter, sealing and stamping it with blood red wax, her eyes met his once more. "I thought we could take a walk."

"A walk?" He rolled from their bed, stretching, not bothering to hide his nudity.

She rose and tossed him a robe, calling for a maid. "Yes, a walk," she said, smiling. When Carinya came in, Lyla handed her all the letters. "Keep them safe, send this one," she pointed to the one on top, "to the Wall. The others go to Winterfell. Thank you." Her handmaid nodded and took her leave, and when it was just they two, Lyla returned to the desk. "Dress," she commanded, looking up at him from the paperwork that she began filing; the papers into their individual boxes and pulling the drawers open to place the inkpots and quills in them before closing them.

He rolled his eyes playfully when she looked back up at him. "When did you become so demanding, little wife? I feel as though you grow bolder by the day." Lyla raised a brow and folded her arms, standing straight. "Alright, I'll dress," he surrendered, holding his hands up and opening the wardrobe. "Why is it you insist on walking with me? Conscience of your figure?"

"I just want to get out of our room... I've been in here all day waiting for you to get up." He was pulling a thin doublet of amethyst over his head, slipping his arms into the sleeves, when she spoke up, and he glanced up at her.

"You could have gone and done something, Lyla, you're not a prisoner."

She smiled and made her way to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder. "Of course I'm not, Jaime. I just didn't want you to get lonely up here by yourself..." She looked up at him and kissed his cheek before grabbing a pair of sleet grey breeches for him and tossing him some black boots. "Hurry up, I told Jory I'd see Rose before dark."

He dressed quickly, Lyla grabbed his cloak for him, and they were out of the room in no time, heading toward the Tower of the Hand. It was growing colder and he was glad that she'd remembered his cloak as he clasped it on, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "If you don't want a feast for your name day, what did you want? It's coming close," he said, looking down at her.

"Four days," she mumbled, nodding. "I don't want anything. I'd be happy just seeing everyone and spending the day with you." Lyla smiled and touched her locket, huddling closer to him as wind picked up.

Jaime leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I'm sure that can be arranged." When the tower was in sight, Lyla grinned widely and ran in front of him, giggling happily like the young girl of fifteen, nearly sixteen, that she was.

"Jory!" She called as her father's guard came into view, and she leaped at him, laughing when he lifted her and spun her. "Where is my wolf, Jory? I do miss her."

The guard smiled at his lady and nodded towards the castle. "Here," he said as Jaime neared. "_Rose_!" He howled, and after a hesitation, there was a scattering of paws against cobble floor and out came the direwolf, ever growing and bounding towards its master.

The wolf, pale brown of fur with large copper eyes, panted excitedly, jumping at Lyla so enthusiastically that his wife fell to the grass, chuckling and wrapping her arms around the direwolf. It was as large as a pony, its tail creating a heavy wind as it flicked back and forth. "Down, sweet. Down," She murmured to the wolf, sitting up and patting its shoulder softly.

Jaime shook his head, smiling jestingly. Holding his arm out for her, he helped her up and brushed her down, "Are you alright?" He asked, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

"I'm fine,_ mother_," she replied, grinning and winking. "It's_ my_ wolf, she won't harm me."

Rose whimpered and Jaime looked down at her, running his fingers through her fur and rubbing her behind the ears. He opened his mouth to speak but Lyla gasped and opened her arms.

"Father!" She hollered, smiling. He'd been with Lyla almost every day the past near three weeks that they'd been married and the days he hadn't were when Loras visited her and when her ladies had visited her, both times while he was out training with Ser Addam, and neither times had Eddard Stark come to see her. He knew the job of the King's Hand was demanding, but he could have seen her at least once or twice- he chose not to.

Eddard looked up at his daughter with a somber expression and her smile faded with the blowing wind. "Father, has something happened? Are the girls okay?" She buried her hand in Rose's fur and she cocked her head to the side, holding her breath.

He just shook his head. "Jory, collect Sansa and Arya by any means. Have the men gather their things and saddle the horses. Get the wagons ready."

"Father, what's-"

"I am taking the girls from King's Landing."

She stared at him in disbelief, mouth gaping. "Lord Stark what is the meaning of this? You're the King's Hand." Jaime crossed his arms and raised a brow, eying Lyla and then her father.

His sleet grey eyes were darkening by the second. "I've defied the King's wishes, and am no longer in his service. Jory, go! I'll not waste another second in this capitol that I can use to get out of it. Lyla, walk with me."

Jaime watched as his wife's eyes filled with worry and she knelt down, kissing Rose's head and whispering, "_Home_," to her ear. The wolf perked up and began to pad in the direction of the Tower of the Hand, but she turned. "_Home_, Rose," Lyla commanded once more, and the wolf sprang back to them, purposely sitting beside she and Jaime.

"She is home here," Jaime murmured to her, but she shook her head.

"King Robert won't allow her anywhere but the Tower of the Hand unless she's finished with her training now, the maids are all scared of her." She rubbed the wolf's head and nodded to Jory, who whistled and took the direwolf with him as he hurried into the tower again. "Father, tell me of what happened. Why aren't you the Hand?"

"We'll speak about it behind closed doors," said her father. "Come. Kingsla... Ser Jaime, you come too. This affects you as it does my daughter."

* * *

They made their way to his solar in utter silence, but for the sound of their shoes clicking against the hard floors. Lyla gripped his hand so tight her knuckles paled to white. Once safely in his study, she released his hand and went to her father, who sat behind his large oak desk.

"Tell me," she insisted, sitting in front of him. Jaime stood behind her hair, placing his hands on her shoulders.

Lord Stark inhaled and exhaled deeply, looking towards the window as he brooded. "Robert has taken it upon himself to vie for the death of Daenerys Targaryen," he said after a while.

Lyla looked baffled. "Daenerys is not Rhaegar Targaryen, she had nothing to do with my aunt's death. Besides, she's so young... If he must kill a Targaryen to fill his blood lust, can he not kill the Beggar King, Viserys?"

"Prince Viserys has been crowned by her Khal husband," her father said darkly. "With molten gold."

Lyla blinked and Jaime watched as her hand reached up, grabbing it with his. Eddard didn't miss the action. "If Viserys is dead and her husband is a horse lord, then how is it that the king has any anger left? The Dothraki don't cross the Narrow Sea, father. It doesn't make sense for him to be cross."

The man took another deep breath. "She's pregnant."

"Pregnant?" It was Jaime who spoke that time, startling himself- he'd aimed to remain quiet while his wife and her father spoke. "The girl is a child of thirteen-"

"She's fourteen now," Lord Stark corrected, pursing his lips. "Girls have gotten with child younger than that." When Jaime glanced down, he noticed Lyla's hand was curled over her stomach, covering it.

She looked up at her father with steel eyes. "I will speak to the king about this," she said, determined. "I will tell him his wrongs. He will listen to me."

"If he didn't listen to your father, he certainly won't listen to you, Lyla." Jaime shook his head, squeezing her hand. "I've known him long, and when he makes up his mind, its made for good." Eddard nodded in agreement, though it was hesitant.

Lyla rose, crossing her arms. "He will listen to reason," she affirmed, holding her head high. Jaime had only ever seen Lyanna Stark once, at the tourney at Harrenhal, but when he saw his wife standing there with her firm fortitude and clenched jaw, he though her a ghost of her aunt. Mayhaps if she stood that way, Robert would listen after all.

A knock on the door halted any further conversation. A fat head popped in, Stark's man, Tomard, and he shifted uncomfortably at the sight of Jaime. "Lord Baelish to see you, m'lord," he said to Eddard.

"Show him in, Tom," Lord Stark ordered, shuffling with some papers at his desk. Petyr Baelish looked sinister in a slashed velvet doublet of cream-and-silver, a grey silk cloak trimmed in black fox, and his devilish smirk, sauntering in as though the air weren't thick with tension as it was.

"Might I ask the reason for this visit, Lord Baelish?" It was Lyla who asked the question, eying the short man warily.

Baelish smiled at her, then looked to Eddard. "I won't detain you long, I'm on my way to dine with Lady Tanda. Lamprey pie and roast suckling pig. She has some thought to wed me to her younger daughter, so her table is always astonishing. If truth be told, I'd sooner marry a pig, but don't tell her. I do love lamprey pie."

"Don't let me keep you from your eels, my lord," Lord Stark grumbled with ice in his voice. "At the moment, I cannot think of anyone whose company I'd desire less than yours."

"Oh, I'm certain if you put your mind to it, you could come up with a few names. Varys, say. Cersei. Or Robert. His Grace is most wroth with you. He went on about you at some length after you took your leave of us this morning. The words _insolence_ and_ ingratitude_ came into it frequently, I seem to recall."

Lyla sneered with disdain when Littlefinger took a seat beside her, despite the fact that Eddard had not offered one. "My father is _neither_ of those things. He did what was honorable," she defended, though her father shook his head at her.

"Honor goes so far, but what of the rest of the road that is left to cover, sweet Lady Lannister, when honor means no more?" Petyr grinned, eying her father with his deep grey-green eyes, the color of rotten peas. "After you stormed out, it was left to me to convince them not to hire the Faceless Men," he continued. "Instead Varys will quietly let it be known that we'll make a lord of whoever does in the Targaryen girl."

Lord Stark glowered, disgusted. "So now we grant titles to assassins."

"Titles are cheap," Littlefinger pointed out with a shrug. "The Faceless Men are expensive. If truth be told, I did the Targaryen girl more good than you with all your talk of," he looked to Lyla then, "honor. Let some sellsword drunk on visions of lordship try to kill her. Likely, he'll make a botch of it, and afterward the Dothraki will be on their guard. If we'd sent a Faceless Man after her, she'd be as good a buried."

Lyla opened her mouth, but Eddard spoke. "You sit in council and talk of ugly women and steel kisses, and now you expect me to believe that you tried to protect the girl? How big a fool do you take me for?"

"Well, quite an enormous one, actually," said Lord Baelish, laughing.

"Do you always find murder so amusing, Lord Baelish?" Lyla asked, fuming.

He smiled innocently. "It's not murder I find amusing, Lady Lannister, it's your father. He rules like a man dancing on rotten ice. I daresay he will make a noble splash. I believe I heard the first crack this morning."

"The first and last," said Ned. "I've had my fill."

Petyr tilted his head. "When do you mean to return to Winterfell, my lord?"

"As soon as I can," his wife's father replied. "What concern is that of yours?"

Lyla reached for his hand again and Jaime readily took it, kissing her knuckles; both Eddard and Petyr were watching then. "None... but if perchance you're still here come evenfall, I'd be pleased to take you to this brothel your man Jory has been searching for so ineffectually." Petyr smiled. "And I won't even tell the Lady Catelyn."

Lord Baelish left with a flourish and Lyla prickled when his fingertips graced her chair. "What brothel? What about mother?" She questioned, tightening her hold on Jaime's hand. "What's going on?"

Eddard Stark stared at his daughter for long before uttering his House words with caution and darkness lurking around each syllable.

"_Winter is coming_."

_*Hey all, sorry for the long wait! I hope this chapter makes up for it, though; sweet time with the children, sex, and drama. The whole package, right? I worked really hard on writing this one and wanted it to be just right before I posted, but I'll try and keep up more regularity, I promise._  
_Enjoy, and thank you so much for favoriting, following, and most of all reviewing! It's what keeps me going :)_  
_Have a great start of your week, sweets!_


	24. Chapter 24

"Are you sure?" Lyla stared at Maester Frenken with wide, anxious eyes, hands laying flat over her stomach from where she sat in a chair by the hearth, face twisted in a sort of fearful wonderment.

The red haired maester smiled at her and nodded. "I'm as sure as the sun will set come nightfall. You and your lord husband are expecting."

She shook her head, curls of brown blurring her vision from the ferocity of it. "It cannot be. We've been trying for less than a week... You're absolutely certain?"

Frenken laughed and patted her hand. "For a someone whose trying at all, I'd think you would be happy, my lady." When she just looked back down at her stomach and gulped, loud and obvious, he continued. "My lady, you've been in the capitol for over a month and married for a moon's cycle to be sure, and have you had your moon's bleeding once?"

He'd already asked her before, and she shook her head all the same as she had the first time; absentmindedly. She hadn't had time to remember that she was supposed to bleed, what with the wedding and the sickness_- the sickness_! "Maester Frenken, how is it I could be carrying a child if I was sick with fever these past few weeks? You told me I was sick yourself."

"Aye, I did, my lady," he said, "and it is common for women to become sick with fever within the early stages of their pregnancy. Her Grace, Queen Cersei, was sick for a whole month when she was swollen with both Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella."_ But not Tommen, surely. He is always so easy..._

"How far?" Lyla asked, staring at her belly. It was as flat as it had been when she first met Jaime in Winterfell, and now it was full with his child. _Their_ child. "How... far along am I?"

Maester Frenken pressed a few fingers below where her hands rested and looked up at her. "When was your last bleeding, Lady Lannister?"

"We were on the King's Road..." Her brows furrowed and she looked at him, into his curious, crystal blue eyes, straight red hair tied back behind him. "I was supposed to have my blood just after the wedding... Could it be... This whole time..."

He nodded. "I suspect from your very first coupling you've been with child. Or at least one close to it- forgive me but I shan't ask for details."

She blushed slightly, remembering the day after their wedding, how they'd rutted at least four times through the hours that the sun was still high in the sky. Then she felt like a dumb, silly child. How could she not remember her moon's blood, when she'd been having it so regularly for four years now? "I really am, aren't I..." she whispered it mostly to herself, biting her lip.

A smile grew, tugging on the corners of her mouth, and she wrapped her arms fully around her belly. "I'm going to have a child," she exclaimed excitedly, leaning out of her chair and hugging the maester, bouncing on her seat giddily. She was scared to death but the surreal feeling that she was carrying a child, her and Jaime's little wolf, took over her senses.

"Yes, my lady," Frenken replied, laughing as she released him and they both rose.

"Thank you so much," she said, teary eyed now.

"Don't thank me, my lady," he said modestly, smiling. "Thank your husband."

She nodded, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You have my gratitude yet. I wish I could be coming to you and you alone for all my needs, Maester, but my husband and I are leaving for Casterly Rock in just a few days time."

"Should you need anything until then, don't fret in calling on me. I'm always available." He bowed his head and packed his trunk, leaving with a sweeping and quiet shutting of her bedroom doors.

She'd sent for him because she'd been sick that morning for the first time in a week and she was worried she'd caught the fever again; she certainly hadn't been prepared to hear that she was carrying a baby, though it was better news than knowing she was sick again. She sat down and began humming, holding her stomach.

She wondered if this was what her mother felt like, when she learned she was pregnant with Robb after she and Eddard's first coupling. Scared, fearful, but so overzealous that none of that mattered. Lyla had never imagined herself to be a mother- a wife, sure, but never a mother- and now she couldn't help picturing it. A little boy with thick near-black waves and big grey eyes, a Stark through and through with the temperament of her lord father. _Tywin_, she mused to herself,_ I'll name him Tywin_.

It was still early in the morning, and she stared at the room before her, full of clothes and trunks, looking so barren now that they were packed to leave and living out of their boxes for the next few days. She wondered how Jaime would react to know that he was to be a father so soon, that she was probably a moon's turn along. Part of her thought he would be as excited as she, but another thought that he would be upset or halt their plans to travel because he didn't want to ride with a pregnant highborn like Lord Tywin had said.

She sighed, rubbing her stomach. She couldn't hide this from Jaime; he would find out sooner or later, and she'd rather tell him now than deal with his possible strife farther down the road. Rising once more, she made her way to the balcony, stretching her arms along the length of the bannister. The sun was midway in the lavender sky, bright and white, glittering like diamonds. Closing her eyes, she let the heat embody her.

She could hear birds singing, feel the wind as it gently tugged on her loose curls and the dagged sleeves of her deep ruby gown, lined in gold. It was then that she felt the first raindrop, and she opened her eyes, looking up at the sky with excitement. It hadn't rained in King's Landing in the month or over that she had been there, and as it began to pour over her, she began to laugh.

It was warm outside and the cool kiss of the raindrops made her feel like she was in Winterfell again, as the dark clouds took over and the water washed down on her. When she heard voices below, she raised a brow and leaned over the balcony to look down at the hill that she and Jaime's chamber was facing. There were two men on steeds of ivory and deep burgundy.

""He was the King's Hand. Doubtless Robert asked him to see that they were provided for," said a short-seated man in awkward southern garb, and she narrowed her eyes to see his pointy black beard and smug smirk. _Petyr Baelish_.

There was a man beside him, taller with slick wet hair that was black from the rain water. She studied him for only half a second before she recognized him as her lord father, Eddard Stark. He looked soaked and upset. "It had to be more than that, or why kill him?" He pondered, looking towards Littlefinger.

Baelish shook rain from his short straight hair and laughed. "Now I see. Lord Arryn learned that His Grace had filled the bellies of some whores and fishwives, and for that he had to be silenced. Small wonder. Allow a man like that to live, and next he's like to blurt out that the sun rises in the east."

Her father frowned, and Lyla heard her bedroom door open and close. "Renly's gone out for a sit with his brother, so I figured I'd come keep you company... Lyla, what are you doing out in the rain?" It was an all too familiar voice, and she beckoned the speaker towards her without so much as turning to make sure of who it was.

"Do you see my father down there? It is he who I would be worried about, the way he is with Lord Baelish right now." Something was wrapped over her shoulders, one of Jaime's robe's probably, and she nodded her thanks. "What do you think they're doing out there, Loras?"

He scoffed. "I don't care what they're doing out there, but you've just recovered from your illness. Come inside." When she shook her head and kept staring, he sighed and turned. "I'll fetch you another cloak. One with a hood perhaps."

"The black, please," she called over her shoulder. The rain began to pour harder then and she could hear the drumming as it pounded against the stone walls and the hard glass of the balcony doors. Loras hurried outside and took the robe, handing her a heavy black bear pelt cloak lined in grey fox fur, before he muttered something about the horrid rain and the monstrosity his hair would become if he remained in it much longer.

Lyla was about to open her mouth to tell him to shut up about it and go inside then, but as she tied to cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood, she caught sight of Jory Cassel, running with a flying passion. "_My lord_," he screamed, and before she could blink the street flooded with soldiers and rainwater, draining like rivers down the streets.

"Loras," she breathed, reaching out for him and grabbing his hand. Tight.

They were clad in ringmail over leather, wearing platinum gauntlets and greaves, steel helms with golden lions on the crests. Rain clogged cloaks were clinging to their backs like a second skin; at least ten men were in the line that formed before Lord Stark. They blocked the street, carrying longswords and iron-tipped spears.

"_Behind_!" Came a call from one of her father's men, Wyl, and she looked to where more soldiers had formed in the back of them._ No_, she thought hastily, _no this cannot be. Where is Jaime? Where is the King_? Jory ripped his sword from its holster. "Make way or die!"

Then she saw the leader of them and her eyes grew wide and darkened. "The wolves are howling," he called over the beating rain. "Such a small pack, though." Beads of water dripped from his golden hair and she glared with fire in her heart and her nails dug into Loras' skin, making him cringe beside her.

Littlefinger rode closer to the line, step by step, on his bright white steed. "What is the meaning of this? This is the Hand of the King."

"He _was_ the Hand of the King." Mud began sliding down the rivers of downpour and muffled the click of the blood bay's hooves. The men parted for the leader and he rode through the line, stopping before her father and the Master of Coin. "Now, if truth be told, I'm not sure what he is."

"Lannister, this is madness," Littlefinger gruffed. "Let us pass. We are expected back at the castle. What do you think you're doing?"

Her father sat taller on his horse then, staring at the man with calm grey eyes. The eyes that she hoped would reflect on the babe she now carried. "He knows what he's doing."

Lancel Lannister grinned like the seven devils themselves. "Quite true. I'm looking for my cousin, You remember my cousin, don't you, Lord Stark? Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, sharp of tongue. A short man."

"I remember him well," her father replied. His shoulders tensed and Lyla bit her lip, staring with her hands falling to her stomach.

"It would seem he has met some trouble on the road. My lord uncle is quite vexed; sent me to inquire of this folly personally. You would not perchance have any notion of who might have wished my cousin ill, would you?"

Eddard's jaw clenched and unclenched, flexing, flickering. What was going on and who would want to take Tyrion? He was so kind to her. "Your cousin has been taken at my command, to answer for his crimes," her father said at last. Crimes? She looked to Loras, who seemed intent on staring at the men. Her eyes followed suit.

Littlefinger's lips grew into a thin flat line and he groaned in dismay. "My lords-"

Lancel fiercely yanked his sword from its scabbard, all too excited and all too awkward. He was slow and ungainly, and she didn't even both to head the words that began to fall from his mouth as she ripped the bear pelt cloak from her body and grabbed Jaime's practice sword from the top of the table, thanking the gods that he'd left it there the night before as she sprinted from the room, leaving Loras chasing after her.

* * *

"_No!_" Lyla screamed as she reached the hillside where her father lay in his own blood, Petyr Baelish nowhere in sight. There were other men laying around, Wyl, Tomard, but Jory wasn't there like he had been just moments ago. "Loras, go fetch the maester!" She cried, running and kneeling beside her father. He looked so pale, muttering unintelligible things. She grabbed his hand and choked back a sob, the stench making her want to roil.

"Which maester?" Loras asked from the castle entrance, shielded from the downpour that drenched Lyla and Ned.

"I don't give one bloody fuck _which_ maester, Loras, just get one!" Had the rain not been drumming against the road, Lyla was certain the whole Red Keep would echo her thundering command. Quickly, her friend ran from her presence and back into the castle, up the stairs to find whoever he could. But her attention wasn't on the Knight of Flowers any longer, it was on her father.

"Oh, father," she whispered, taking his hand and bringing it to her cheek. Her free hand went to his forehead, where she brushed back his slick water-blackened hair and kissed his temple, not able to hold back from crying. "That venomous snake," she hissed through her tears, "That treacherous, evil, dirty mistake of a rat. I'm so sorry, father, I should have come down. I should have been here, I should have..." Sobs consumed her then and she rested over his body, feeling his shallow, blunt breathing. "I love you, father. So much..." She looked over to his leg, where the blood had flowed from and surrounded him, and crawled to it.

The rain was lightening up, and she took in a sharp breath as she tore open his pant leg. Having to stifle a gasp, Lyla held her breath and desperately tried to keep her newly found composure as she set eyes on the bone that pushed through his leg. Thinking on her toes, her shaking hands went to the hem of her lavish red and gold gown, one that Cersei had ordered for her, and she tore a thick strip from it. Her fingers worked to tie it around his knee, ignoring the blood that stained her hands, so that the river of crimson would stop flowing.

She heard him mumble something and she felt the tears jerk at her again. "Lya," he ground out. Quickly she went to him and held his face in her hands, giving him the best smile she could muster.

"I'm here father, I'm here," she murmured to him, and he looked up at her with his watery grey eyes for only a moment before shutting them again.

"Lyanna," he whispered, touching one of her hands with his, falling back into his delirium.

"No, father, it's me, Lyla," she told him, brushing her thumbs across his cheek.

There were the sounds of heavy footsteps and the clamor of armor, but Lyla didn't care. "Get Lord Stark out of the rain!" Commanded a man, old by the way his voice quivered and shook. Men ran to obey, and Lyla had to bite her tongue; it was all she could do to not scream and claw at them to not touch her father.

"If you hurt him, you would do well to remember that I've a direwolf that can tear you all to shreds in an instant," she warned the men who began to lift Ned onto a sheet to carry inside. As he was laid on the sheet of cream, she fell to tears again, seeing how it so quickly pooled with blood. "Be bloody careful."

A gasp sounded through the murmur of the rain, and she looked up to see Jaime standing there, looking confused and worried. He rushed to her side and tore his cloak off, pulling it over her shoulders. "Lyla, what in the seven hells is going on? You look like you've been soaked through the bone... Gods be damned, girl!"

He hurried her into the castle and she stopped halfway, sobbing onto his chest as he pulled her up and into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way. When he began walking towards their room, she let out a cry and reached for where they carried off her father. "Let me go!" She hissed, pushing against him. "Father! Father! Damn it, Jaime, release me!"

She wiggled free of his grasp and slumped to the floor, careful of her stomach as she fell to her hands and knees for only a moment before she stood and sprinted down the hall that her father was carried to. "Lyla, get back here!" She heard her husband roar, but she didn't care. All she cared about was her father as she chased after the men who held the blood-sodden sheet.

She slipped on her boots so she ripped them off in a haste, teetering after the men barefoot and soaked, dark chunks of hair flopping behind her. She heard as Jaime grunted with each step he took, as though he tried to propel faster with every bit of energy he had, and eventually his arms reached her, wrapping around her waist and swinging her behind him.

"_No!_" She screamed, kicking and clawing at his arms, but he was unrelenting and held her tighter. "There is nothing you can do for your father, Lyla. You'll just be more upset the longer you look at him like that." He slid to the ground against the wall and pulled her onto his lap, though she continued to punch his chest.

"Did you know this would happen? Did you know your cousin would attack him?" She asked, full of hurt and pain and the yearning for answers. He shook his head and she narrowed her watery eyes, still dripping silver tears. "Don't you _dare_ lie to me, Jaime Lannister."

"I didn't know, darling. I swear to you." He held her closer and cradled her head to his chest as she fought the sobs that were buried deep in her heart. "Don't be afraid to cry, Lyla, it'll be okay. Your father will be okay."

She clung to him, fists full of his evergreen doublet and body as close to his as it could be. She felt weak and vulnerable and it was only after her sobs had come and gone- full bodied and depressing- that she heard him speak again. "Let me take you away, sweet girl. Let me take you from here."

Slowly she tilted her head up to meet his eyes, not even caring of what a mess she must have looked. "Are you daft? Jaime, my father is sick in his bed with a bone breaking through his leg. My sisters have no one to comfort them. I cannot go. _We_ cannot go."

"Your father is being tended to by the Grand Maester Pycelle himself and your sisters have Loras, their septa, and all of your lady friends. Lyla, this isn't a safe place for you, and I swore to protect you. You're alone half the day while I'm out being a damned lord's son and King's Landing is full of the eyes and ears of the spider and the mockingjay."

"Jaime, Varys and Littlefinger have their claws into every crevice of the Seven Kingdoms and Essos beyond. You think I'll be safe just because I'm a few hundred leagues away?" She stared at him with her mouth ajar in shock. He was a beautiful fool if he thought she would leave her family just after an attack on it. "You can go. I'm staying."

He scoffed darkly. "You think I'd leave my wife here?" He wrapped his arms fully around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck. "I don't know what to do to keep you safe. Had you gone down there only moments earlier, Lancel would have _killed_ you. And then _I_ would have killed_ him_."

"I'm safe with you," she murmured into his golden mane, running her fingers through it. "I'm safe with Loras, with my father..." She pressed her lips to his waves and pulled away to look him in the eyes. "Jaime, there's someone else who needs protection..." She bit her lip and closed her eyes, her hands falling from his frame to her stomach.

He looked confused and his hand slid up to her cheek. It took a few minutes before he looked down, where her bloody hands lay over her belly, and when his eyes made the contact he just stared.

In his eyes opened a book, and Lyla could read every word. He paled to white and one of his hands trailed to her stomach, resting over it. Terrified, worried, nervous, anxious, scared, fearful, sorrowful, happy, excited, and then terrified once more. "You're... with child?"

She nodded and pressed their foreheads close. "I spoke with Maester Frenken early this morning... He said I was about a month along, maybe a little less."

"We've been trying for less than a week, Lyla," Jaime murmured with furrowed brows, thumb caressing her belly. "It's not... possible."

"He said from the very first time... Jaime, I haven't bled since the King's Road." Lyla looked him in the eyes and felt a sad smile pull on her lips. "We're going to have a baby."_ A baby that might never see his grandfather, or the home of his mother...  
_

He groaned and pulled her in for a tight hug, and she felt the slick wetness of his tears on her neck, leaving her to wonder if they were happy or sad. _I thought he wanted this_, she thought gloomily, but then she felt his warm, tender smile being pressed to her collarbone. "I love you, Lyla Stark or Lannister or whatever in the seven kingdoms you want your name to be. I bloody love you." His whispers vibrated against her skin and sent delicious shivers down her spine.

Her eyes began to rain tears again and she kissed him as he lifted her up from the ground and began carrying her towards their chambers. "I love you too, Jaime," she cried against his lips, smiling like a bloody fool.

It was in that moment that she knew; Lyla Stark was the second born of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the Daughter of Winter, a lady by all rights who was raised in the North, but she felt more at home in the arms of Jaime Lannister than she ever did in Winterfell.

_*Well, some big events as you can see!_  
_I decided not to make Jaime Ned's attacker, since I couldn't stand to pull my babies apart just yet, but I think Lancel made a fine substitute. And as for the pregnancy... Well I couldn't neglect that for too long, or it would affect the timeline I have drawn up. Hope you're all hanging in there with me, as I said before, these will be some plot driven next few chapters!_  
_Next update will deal with more people learning of the pregnancy and Robert's reaction to seeing Jaime after a Lannister has just attacked his Hand._  
_Can't wait to hear your thoughts on the story so far! And maybe we'll get some name suggestions, too? ;)_  
_Have a great morning, dearies! Enjoy your day!_


	25. Chapter 25

Jaime woke up with his wife tangled in his arms, her deep brown curls splayed around her and the sound of her soft snores filling the room. It had to be some time near mid morning, because as he turned his head towards the window, the sun was still blooming into the pale lavender sky.

He looked back down at his wife and sighed sadly, running his fingertips up and down the dip of her waist, where the robe she pulled on after her hot bath had bunched up. The moment he found that damned Lancel Lannister, Jaime would kill him.

He'd gotten the full story from his little wolf bride the night before; she'd just gotten word of her pregnancy from the maester when she went to the balcony and witnessed as her father and his men were surrounded by Lannister forces. By the time she got there, it was too late. Her father was injured and two of his men were dead, another missing, along with his cousin and the soldiers that worked with him.

Grinding his teeth, Jaime held his wife closer, curling his arms around her stomach.

He hadn't been more shocked or stunned in his life, than the moment that Lyla told him she was with child. She looked so scared, desperate for his approval; and she'd gotten it. As the words came out of her mouth, that there was another that needed protected, time had stopped and he took a second to recount on his relationships in the past- particularly of that with Cersei.

Jaime had been with her since he was younger than Lyla, and she had given him three children; three children that had never truly been his. She hadn't even told him herself when she had gotten with child, he found out by the royal announcement like all the rest, always wondering if it was truly his or not.

He hated seeing another man raise his children, and never once would he get a say in it, nor in their lives. He remembered when Myrcella had taken to an illness as a child and he wasn't allowed to see her, even as her _uncle_.

He didn't have to worry about not knowing if the babe was his with Lyla. He didn't have to worry about being shut out of his child's life. It would be his and hers. _Theirs_. But then the overwhelming sense of the fact that he would have to actually step up and be a father swept through him and he could remember the feeling of his stomach as it twisted and churned.

Jaime had never been a father, nor a father figure at that, and he and Lyla were so newly wed. It was scary, terrifying, and he had wanted to run away. And then his eyes met Lyla's. Their reassuring blue like that that of the Sunset Sea, flecks of silver shimmering with concern and deafening emotion. It was then that he felt _her_ fear, too. How she trembled in his arms, lower lip quivering in worry.

This woman was his wife, and in her swelled the fruit of their union, and as he felt a shivering sweep of realization, he finally understood his feelings for his wife. She had captivated him so thoroughly that he'd been left with no other revelation that he indeed loved the sweet Lyla Stark._ Lannister now,_ he thought with a grin.

Lyla stirred and he moved to sit at the edge of the bed as watched her lids flutter open and she turned to look at him. Her eyes were still red from crying last night, and she moved slowly, as though she were suffering from a headache, but she seemed otherwise radiant. Looking up at Jaime, she smiled and raised a hand to his face, cupping his cheek. "Good morning, husband," she said, as had become custom for every morning, and he kissed the thumb that trailed to his lips.

"Good morning, wife," he murmured. "Are you feeling well? I could send for a bath..."

She shook her head, fuzzy brown curls swaying around her, some falling across her brow until he brushed them away. "No, I'm fine," she insisted, yawning slightly as she propped her elbow on her raised knee, filling her hand with her hair as she leaned on her palm. "It's so bright... Surely it's near noon?"

"Not quite. Midmorning, I believe." Jaime leaned in and kissed her softly, pulling away after just a moment. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can have Carinya come in."

"Jaime, truly, I'm alright." Lyla pecked his cheek and swung her legs from the bed, rising slowly. "I'm going to visit my father today," she said as she pulled her robe closer to her body- though really it was Jaime's robe, crimson with a dashing lion of Lannister blazon of gold on the back, which she'd taken to using over her own silk robe of silver lined in pearlescent white.

"You should eat before you go." He looked up at her from his seat on the bed and couldn't help but feel his heart melt a fraction. She was so beautiful, with brown curls as wild as her heritage but creamy skin and inviting blue eyes that dragged one in like a moth to a flame. She looked sad, though, when he gazed at those oceanic eyes, and he sighed, remembering the events of the night before with vivid detail.

_Foolish Lancel, trying to achieve far greater than his position. Tomorrow I'll take up a search party and we'll find the bastard_. Even as close as he was to Tyrion, with his marriage to Lyla Jaime would never jump to such a conclusion as to attack her father, Hand of the King.

Eddard Stark had been paler than the summer snow, muttering about his fallen sister Lyanna while holding his daughter's hand. The bone in his leg had been peeking into the sky, creamy and white, and the blood around him and on Lyla had been an overwhelming amount. It only made it worse to try and take Lyla back to their chamber.

She'd tried to run after her father, clawed her way from his arms and sprinted, ripping her boots off even, but it had been for naught when he caught her. In his arms, in the shadows of the hall, Lyla had cried so freely. She loved her father more than anyone in the world, he presumed, and his own damned family had betrayed her.

She smiled tiredly at him from where she stood only feet away, arms wrapped around her stomach absentmindedly. "I've no hunger," she said softly, shaking her head.

"If not for you, than for the babe?" He raised a brow and pulled her closer, resting a hand over her belly. It still seemed so strange, but he supposed he had time to come to terms with it. They both did.

Lyla exhaled slowly, resting her head on his shoulder as she sat beside him. "Alright," she said, "for the babe."

Jaime called for Carinya and the maid quickly rushed for something for them to eat while Lyla washed her face and Jaime helped her dress. She seemed so quiet and defeated this morning, so tired, and he couldn't blame her. He'd been as such after his mother had died- only Eddard wasn't to die. _Or so I hope_, Jaime thought sadly. He didn't know if his little wife could handle her father's death.

After Lyla had been dressed in a gown of brilliant crimson, rimmed gold with fresh water pearls buttoning down the bodice, Jaime had also dressed. He wore a thin cream doublet and ruby breeches, black of boots with a cloth of gold cape. A knock on the door interrupted Jaime clasping his wife's locket around her neck, and he called for who ever it was to come in.

He finished clasping the necklace and turned to see Carinya kicking the door open with her foot. He went to help her, taking one of the trays from her and shutting the door before taking another tray from her and setting them on the table by the balcony doors. "Come, sit," he offered to Lyla, who nodded, rising and meeting him, pressing her lips to his scruffy gold cheek, where he was beginning to grow a beard, before sitting.

There were meats and biscuits and fruits all over, with honeys and wine beside pitchers of water. Lyla stared at the feast, eying the peppered beef for particularly long before she convulsed forward, hand on her mouth, and made her way to the clean chamber pot, where Carinya held her unbrushed curls back as she vomited.

Jaime went to her side and rubbed her back, worried. "Are you alright?" He looked to Carinya then. "My brother implored to me of your... past. Is this usual for women who are with child?" Cersei had been with fever while carrying Joffrey and Myrcella, but he'd never seen her do _this_.

The handmaid brightened considerably. "With child, my lord? Is she truly?" Jaime just nodded, and she grinned, eyes full of excitement. "Well, the girls back at the..." she eyed Lyla quickly before continuing, seeming to not want to express her past life in detail with her Lady. "The girls back at the... village... were sick most mornings, if they'd been carrying."

He nodded, and when Lyla finished, she sat back and insisted she was fine, refusing help but accepting the feel of Carinya running a brush through her hair. Jaime knew that Catelyn Stark must have done so with her daughter plenty before she'd left Winterfell, and he knew that Lyla wished her mother were there- what wife wouldn't want their mother with them through their pregnancy? Especially after her father had just been attacked. He felt bad that they'd not had a close relationship, Catelyn and Lyla, for he could see she needed a mother still, at her fifteen- sixteen on the morrow- years.

The thought of the attack made Jaime bristle, and he watched as his wife sat beside the chamber pot with her maid brushing her hair, eyes closed as though she were lost in a daydream. He would do anything to protect her, the woman he loved and who carried their child, because she was his family now. Her family was his, too.

No matter what Lyla thought herself, the capitol wasn't safe- certainly not safer than Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister had assured that much while Joanna was still alive and Jaime and Cersei were only children, Tyrion just a seed in the womb.

"Jaime?" He looked up to see Lyla staring at him with a raised brow and worry in her eyes.

He patted her hand and sighed. "I was thinking..."

"Clearly," she said.

"I think we should go to Casterly Rock."

Carinya excused herself, taking away the chamber pot, and Lyla crossed her arms. "I thought we went over this last night... It won't be any different in Casterly Rock than it is here."

"It will be." Jaime took her hands in his and intertwined their fingers. "Here, in King's Landing, there are soldiers from every Lord living here, each with different intentions. In Casterly Rock, you and I will be their Lord and Lady. The soldiers will all be ours, and their intentions will be to protect us. The westerners love Lannisters, of that my father made sure."

"My family-"

"Can come with us." He held one of her hands up to his cheek, where her fingers reached for his golden waves, toying with them. "Your sisters, Sansa and Arya, they can come with us. I'll pay that Bravosi of Arya's to come, and I'll make sure that Sansa brings her friend and her septa. Your father can be tended to in the infirmary, and once he's better, we can send him and your sisters to Winterfell with enough provisions to ensure their comfort and safety. Lyla, I won't let us stay here. Whether you like it or not, you're carrying our child and I'll not have you living in risk of attack."

She just stared at him for a while, blue eyes twinkling in anger at first, and then in understanding as he brought up their child. "I haven't told my sisters yet. Or my father. Nobody but us, the maester, and Carinya knows," she said absentmindedly, pulling one of her hands from his and brushing it over her belly. He reached out and ran his fingers over it gently, too, and closed his eyes as she scooted close to him and wrapped her arms around him.

He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her forehead and she sighed and leaned into him. "I want to leave as soon as possible, and until we do, I'll have you closely guarded. I'll have Addam collect the four best men in my ranks to protect you. The four closest behind are to go to your sisters, two each along with two north men each."

"Four guards? That'll just draw in attention, Jaime, not keep it away."

"I'm not worried about_ drawing_ attention, I'm worried about _killing_ any enemies. Your family is now under my protection." Despite the love he had for his little brother, Jaime couldn't let that cloud his devotion and loyalty to his wife, first and foremost. She was his immediate concern. She and their babe; as well as those closest to her. _Her family_.

"I think we should bring the children, too," she said quietly against his chest, her breath seeping through his clothes and tickling his skin. "Myrcella and Tommen, that is..." Lyla pulled away slightly to look him in the eyes. "They're never attended to here. Cersei would rather parade the prince around and Robert would rather drink and whore his way to an early grave. They need us, Jaime. We're their family too."

He nodded, almost grudgingly. He was more their family than he cared to admit to her. Yet, he still agreed. "We are indeed their family. I'll speak to Robert about it."

The sound of knuckles rasping at the door startled them, and Jaime lifted her up in his arms, carrying her to the bed and sitting her down, bringing her a glass of water to wash out the foul taste of vomit from her mouth before he answered the knocking. It was a tall boy, thin and lanky with orange hair and brown eyes, a slew of think freckles splashed over his cheeks. "My lord, Jaime of House Lannister," he said in a shaky voice, holding out a small rolled piece of paper. "Her Grace, Queen Cersei Baratheon of House Lannister, seeks an audience."

The boy was certainly formal, which partly made up for the awkward composure he held, and Jaime took the paper from him, unrolling it.

_Come see me in the Throne Room_, it said, and nothing else. They'd not talked since he reprimanded her for questioning Lyla's maidenhood. Looking back to the boy, he shooed him away, saying he'd find his own way to the Throne Room.

"My sister wants to see me," Jaime told his wife as he leaned on the door frame.

Lyla sat the water goblet down and stood, holding a hand on her stomach. "What business does she have?" She asked, curious. "Is there news from the infirmary? Has my father woken?"

"She only said to go to the Throne Room..." Jaime pressed his lips to Lyla's and brushed his fingers through her hair. "Go see to your father, I'll meet you there soon." Knowing Cersei, this could only be two things; Ridiculous and complete folly, or gravely serious. Jaime could only hope for the latter.

* * *

Cersei stood with her back towards the grand double doors.

Her golden hair fell in waves down to her lower back, and she was donned in a gown of deep burgundy, rimmed with ivory and patterned with dark ruby filigree. She wore a crown with rubies circling the base, wrought of pure gold in the shape of overlapping antlers, small and round and short.

She did not turn when the doors opened, she did not turn when Jaime called her name. Instead, she spoke.

"Have you ever thought about if it had been Rhaegar Targaryen who had won the fight on the Trident?" She asked, continuing without waiting for his answer. "I often find myself wondering. What if Robert's hammer hadn't cracked down on his polished black armor and struck him down? What if Rhaegar had been victorious? Elia Martell would have been dead and Lyanna Stark as well, and who would that leave? Cersei Lannister, over looked by Aerys Targaryen and nearly promised to Oberyn Martell."

She sighed, but still focused on the Throne, stepping closer to it and gracing her fingertips in the cool iron of the blades. "I would have princes and princess' with long silver hair and big violet eyes and be a Queen of a different man. A man I might have loved." She paused, and finally she turned. She looked shatteringly indifferent.

"They say you sat on the Iron Throne after you slayed Aerys Targaryen," she said, voice monotone and cold. "That you could have been King, had Eddard Stark not made you get off of it. I also wonder, at times, how different life would be if you had been King. A golden king with a golden crown and golden children around you. Tell me, brother, would that brown haired, watery eyed, dirty little northerner be your Queen? Bearyour halfbreed children?"

Jaime tensed and clenched his fist tight, eyes narrowing as his sister stared coldly at him. "Lyla is not dirty, and our children will not be halfbreeds," he defended.

She tilted her head to the side and wore a smirk that aged her considerably. "Sweet, silly Jaime... I heard a rumor. A whisper of sorts. Your northern bitch is with pup. Or should I say cub?"

"She is with _c__hild_. We are not our sigils, Cersei." Jaime crossed his arms and leaned against a pillar, averting his gaze to the brilliant windows above, remembering what his wife had told him just moments before. _I haven't told my sisters yet. Or my father. Nobody but us, the maester, and Carinya knows... _"Who told you?"

Cersei's grin widened maliciously. "That maester your wife is so fond of... Whose House does he serve?"

"House Stokeworth," he replied, almost automatically.

"And what House is their Overlord?"

Jaime's brows knit together. "House Baratheon."

"House Baratheon of the Crownlands, yes. And who am I by my marriage to Robert?"

"What does all of this have to do with how you know my wife is pregnant?" Jaime looked back to his twin and raised a brow. What game was she playing?

"Who am I by my marriage to Robert?" She asked again, calm.

"Cersei Baratheon," he spat, eyes burning like venom from a snake.

Her grin became unbelievably cattish and he forced himself not to growl. "Yes, Cersei Baratheon, and as a Baratheon, and as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I claimed the little maester and questioned him a bit... He was very open after the fourth finger was cut."

Jaime couldn't suppress his anger and lurched, though Cersei did not flinch. "You're a sick woman. Just because you are a Queen does not mean you can go around mutilating people for gain! Especially not a maester!"

She sneered then, retreated from him by a few steps. "Sick woman? I am a Lannister-"

"-Baratheon," Jaime reminded her with an icy composure. Her emerald eyes shimmered in frustration and she snapped around, turning from him. "What is the reason for bringing me here?" He asked, holding a glacial stare. "Cersei, what is the importance of Lyla's pregnancy to you?"

"To me? Jaime, it's important to_ us_." Cersei eyed him over her shoulder and bared her teeth in anger. "Do you not remember that we entered this world together? That we will leave it together as well? We are bonded at the soul, Jaime."

While her voice was softening, she stood stiffer by the second, and Jaime missed his sweet sister. Not this madwoman who paraded around with a constant disdain and held next to no love in her heart anymore. No, he missed when he and Cersei were back in Casterly Rock, laying before the fire as a thunderstorm raged on, playing with Tyrion between them and trading treats of cakes and pies. They_ had_ been close- but no longer, it seemed to him.

"There is no us anymore," he told her, and while it hurt in his heart, where he still remembered the sister whose hair he brushed when she was sad and whose hand she held when she was frightened, he knew it felt right to say the words. "Cersei, I have a wife and she is carrying my child. I cannot go around playing a fool and doing things as we were."

"The child is a problem easily fixed. Moon tea is a-"

"Cersei, I swear to the Seven, if you ever suggest that I or anyone else kill my child..." He forced himself to stop, feeling as heat radiated to his cheeks. He couldn't let himself lose control, for she was, after all, the Queen of Westeros. "I will speak of this no more," he said instead, turning to leave.

She caught his arm as he made to walk away, though, and looked up at him with his own glimmering green eyes. "You don't love me," she said. "You stand up for that northern slut, and leave me behind to rot. We have been together since _birth_, sweet Jaime." Her eyes grew misty and she reached a hand up to her face. Just as Lyla had done that morning, and many a time before.

Jaime pulled away and shook his head. "You have a husband, I have a wife. We are brother and sister, Cersei, nothing more. Not any longer. I love my wife, and she is carrying my babe in her belly. I'll not go along with this folly."

The water in her eyes seemed to evaporate to nothing and she hissed, shoving him back and slapping him full force, his cheek already throbbing. "I had _three_ of your children, and you leave me for _one_ with that silly-headed _fool_? You'll have your fun with her and once you realize that she's just a hussy with no mind of her own, you'll come back to me. You've always come back to me, and you always will. You don't know _love_, Jaime Lannister, you know _lust_. _Want_. And once you're done wanting her, you'll return."

He just stared at her, allowing her to convince herself that he still needed her, when the truth was that he'd stopped needing her for quite a while now- at least, he'd stopped needing her in_ that_ way. He still needed her to be his sister and support him, but for as long as they'd kept up their madness, he wasn't surprised that she couldn't give him that.

As he had hoped for, Cersei's calling had been folly, ridiculous folly at that, and as he made his way to the Tower of the Hand, he relished in the thought that he and Lyla would be leaving the capitol _and_ Cersei behind. He needed a fresh start, and one with Lyla and their child would only be the sweetest kind.

* * *

Jaime entered quietly, leaning on the doorway as he watched his wife tend to his father.

Lyla was leaned over him, brown curls braided down one side of her as to not disturb her as she worked over man that lay on the bed before her. She was running a damp cloth over his brow, pressing little kisses to his cheeks and sniffling darkly. "I'm so sorry," she whispered to him, obviously unaware of her husband's presence. "If I had known... Oh father..."

She held his hand and cradled it close to her belly, smiling so sadly. "I want to be the one to tell you first, even if you don't remember it, but... I'm having a child, father. You'll be a grandfather and I'll take him to see you in Winterfell, when you're old and white, like the snow." Her voice was failing as tears trickled down her cheeks, and Jaime felt a pang of guilt. His shit of a cousin had done this, to his wife and to her family, to_ him_.

"He'll have your dark hair and grey eyes, and I know you'll love him." She moved his hand from her stomach to her cheek, where she held it there and pressed a quick kiss to his thumb. It was then that Jaime came behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her softly, as gently as if he'd been holding glass.

She leaned into him, sighing as the hot tears fell and splashed onto his hands below. "I fear the worst," she whispered. "I know it's silly and I'm just paranoid, but I can't help but feel... With Bran the way he is and my father like this... Robb wont return my letters. Or Theon, or my mother. I feel like there is something being kept from me, so tell me."

He sighed and raked his fingers through his cool blonde waves. "I'm not sure I should. You may want to hear it from your father or..."

"... Or you. Just tell me, Jaime." She seemed desperate to understand why the Starks were being victimized like so, but he couldn't tell her the whole truth. Not really.

Nodding, he sat down completely and rested his head on her lap, feeling as she ran her fingers in his hair reassuringly. "When your brother... fell... some speculated he knew a secret. A man attacked your brother Bran one night tp silence him. His blade cut your mother's hands as she defended her son, but it was the boy's direwolf who saved him."

"Summer," she gasped, gripping at Jaime's hand tight. She looked terrified. "Is my mother alright? Robb? Rickon? Oh gods, Rickon..."

"He's fine, sweetling, they're all fine." Jaime kissed the top off her hands softly before continuing. "They said the knife was my brother Tyrion's, but I know otherwise."_ I hope otherwise_.

Lyla raised a brow, shaking her head. "Tyrion wouldn't hurt my family. Why try and win my good graces if he wasn't happy about a Stark and Lannister union?"

"I know that, sweet girl. I do. But your family doesn't have knowledge of near any events on the King's Road, but for when the direwolves attacked the prince I'm sure. Unless you or your father had failed to tell them?" She pursed her lips and nodded, admitting that she'd told of that and that alone, and he nodded too. He'd figured as much. "Your mother went out to find my brother, who was traveling from the Wall back home, and..."

"She captured him. That much I knew from when your cousin was speaking to my father and Baelish... I can't help but wonder, why Lancel? Tywin must know that he's an insolent fool- why send a _boy_ out to do such a thing?"

Jaime shrugged. "He knew that I wouldn't dare, and Lancel would do anything for Tywin. Nearly anyone would do anything for my father... Lancel has always been easy to manipulate... Given the right motivation and sufficient reason, he'd do whatever he was asked. Being the simplest Lannister born of them all, he probably did this because he thinks he'll get some brilliant title for it. Knighthood or something of the sort..."

Lyla rolled her eyes. "Doing something so vile and silly because of knighthood? The boy is a slip of a thing. I don't understand why he wasn't just killed."

"From what you and Loras told me, there were three or four Lannister guards for every Stark. He most likely stayed behind while the guards took charge."

"And you still haven't found Jory Cassel?"

Jaime shook his head. "No, we haven't. I'm gathering a party to search for him tomorrow, though. Would you like to go?" Her pregnancy was early enough to not be affected by riding, and he knew she might need some time out of the castle, but she shook her head.

"I need to be with my father and the girls," she said, "but take Rose with you. She needs to be let out. I'll keep Nymeria and Lady with the girls and I... I'll have to tell them about Casterly Rock tomorrow. They'll need to pack. I'll have Septa Mordane pack my father's things."

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and both turned to see Robert Baratheon standing in the doorway. "And why in the Seven Hells would your Septa need to pack my Hand's things?" He asked, black brows pointed together, blue eyes a rage.

"My father is your Hand no longer," Lyla said, holding her chin higher. She was kind to Robert, and likewise, he was as well- near too kind. She reminded him of Lyanna Stark, and it was a painful thing to watch as he looked for his lost love in the young Lannister wife. "You gave up that right when you berated him for standing up for Daenerys Targaryen."

Robert's search for Lyanna ceased then. He'd found her. Lyla's cold steel interior was said to be an exact match to that of Lyanna, and the look on the King's face told all. "She's dragon spawn. She's _evil_."

"She's just a girl, younger than I, who holds no threat to the throne with the sea between you. You're a bloody fool if you think the Dothraki will cross the Narrow Sea just because they've got an exiled princess as their_ Khaleesi_. She'll stay with her _Khal_ and she and her child will live on the Dothraki Sea for the rest of their days." Lyla stood, Jaime not far behind her as he held her at the shoulders protectively. She had her arms wrapped around her belly, eyes hot on Robert.

"You_ dare_ speak to your King that way, girl?" Robert growled, looking to Jaime. "Keep your wife in line, Lannister."

"In line? _You_ dare tell my husband to keep me in line? You may be the King, but for how long with the blood of an innocent fourteen year old on your hands? She is_ not_ Rhaegar, Robert."

"_Your Grace_," he ground out through his anger. "You will address me as your king."

"Or should I say Kinslayer? Through your grandfather's marriage to Rhaelle Targaryen, Daenerys is the daughter of your father's cousin. Is that not how you justified your claim to the Iron Throne? You slayed the son of your father's cousin. Rhaegar. You allowed Elia Martell to die, and her children as well. The populous may not have liked Aerys, but they loved Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell was goodly to them, as was Queen Rhaella."

Robert glared madly at her, and Jaime pulled her back behind him. "Hush, that's enough," he whispered insistently, shaking his head.

"No." She looked over his shoulder to Robert once more. "Because of your absurd obsession with killing your dragon kin, my father is no longer Hand, and _is_ traveling with Jaime and I to Casterly Rock. You don't deserve a friend as good as he, nor a Hand at that." Her words were venom, Jaime knew, and when he turned to see the King, it looked like he'd been stabbed a thousand times.

Robert sat down and just stared at Ned Stark. "More like your Uncle Brandon than your father, girl," he commented after a while, sighing. "And Lyanna. _Gods_, you're like Lyanna. Saying things before you think of them... I know you're mad... But you're a _northerner_." Lyla moved to sit by him and looked up at him sympathetically, a though she'd not just been screaming at him. She couldn't stay mad at anyone for long, Jaime knew, and neither could Robert. "The Targaryen's took your aunt Lyanna, right from her very bed I hear, and there you are defending them? They slayed your Uncle Brandon and your grandfather."

"I know what has befallen on my family because of Aerys and Rhaegar, Your Grace, but those two men are not _all_ the Targaryens. I do not forgive they two, but they are gone regardless, and I have no hatred for Daenerys or her brother Viserys. He may be a beggar king, but he is no mad king. Think about it." The steel was still in Lyla's eyes, but she looked more calm now.

Jaime watched the two interact. Robert leaned against his hair and Lyla quickly patted his hand before retracting herself from his space and rising, moving to embrace Jaime. "I'll be with the girls. Speak to him about the children, Jaime." She kissed him softly and smiled up at him, though he could still see traces of sorrow for her father.

He nodded and watched her go before looking to Robert. The king was already eying him. "When were you going to tell your king that you planned on taking Eddard Stark and all three of his daughters back to Casterly Rock with you?" He asked, arms folding.

"As soon as I could. I did have important matters to attend to today, but I guess I might push them aside and make room for you, Your Grace." Jaime couldn't help the dark sarcasm in his manor. While he hadn't particularly enjoyed Cersei as of late, Robert had made her more miserable than he'd seen anyone since Rhaella Targaryen. He'd made Jaime stand guard at his door while he defiled young girls rather than lie with his sister, the Queen. She _was_ still his sister, regardless of what else she _wasn't_.

"And I thought that girl was softening you, but I see I was wrong, Kingslayer. Tell me, why is it that you are taking the Starks from the capitol?"

"I am bound to protect my wife by the law of man and gods, and through our marriage her family is mine. I am only taking my family to the safety of the Rock until Lord Stark is well enough to go home to Winterfell," Jaime said levelly, working to hold his composure.

Robert barked a hoarse laugh and smacked his hand against his knee, and then he fell into utter seriousness. "Thinking you're going to take the Starks from King's Landing would make you a daft man. The Lannisters attacked Eddard, and you believe I'll let you prance him out of the capitol and towards the home of the lions? Those men at the Rock are loyal to your_ father_, not you, boy. They'll kill the man and his daughters too. Even your wife."

"Here in the capitol, there are more than just my father who want Ned Stark dead. At Casterly Rock he will be treated as a guest, only heavily guarded at all times," he explained.

"You think he's not guarded here?" Robert inquired.

"I _know_ he's not guarded here. There isn't a soldier outside that door, northern or otherwise, nor any in the room or at the windows. He's unprotected and vulnerable." Jaime pointed around to prove his point, then crossed his arms. "I'll have fifteen men at Stark's door, ten each outside his daughters' rooms. Lyla and I will have five posted outside our chamber. Maester Creylen is a good man. He'll have Eddard brand new in just weeks."

Robert eyed his life long friend again and then looked to Jaime. "You'll not be taking Lord Stark, Lannister," he said darkly, shaking his head.

"If I don't take Lord Stark, he'll be forced back into being your Hand, a position you and all the rest of the realm know that he never truly wanted. He is a good friend, Robert, but let him go. Let him go_ home_. He'll _die_ here otherwise. His wife needs him, his sons, all three of them. His two daughters will never thrive in a place so different than Winterfell. They weren't raised for it."

"Who do you suggest to be my Hand in his stead, if you're so keen on your intelligence, Kingslayer?"

Jaime forced himself to slip into a cool indifference, to not cringe at the name. _Kingslayer_, he was called, but with no point to it. Everyone in Westeros and Essos beyond knew what he did, he didn't need a title to prove it. "That's simple. Name Mace Tyrell your Hand. That way his thirst for power would be quenched, and yet you'd have the Tyrells in your pocket. They'd finally be in your debt, rather the other way around."

Robert seemed dumbfounded and even nodded at the truth in Jaime's words. But then he grew fierce. "No. Eddard Stark is my closest friend, and I'll not leave him at the mercy of you filthy lions."

"Even Lyla? She is the reason I'm even considering taking the Starks to Casterly Rock." It was a slight lie. While Lyla was a huge part of it, Jaime had grown attached to being a part- however small that part was- of a family like the Starks. They were so _together_. They _cared_ for one another. Lions never cared for each other, or they never showed it at least. They were too proud for it. Jaime inwardly scoffed. He was sick of acting proud.

Robert looked down. He had an undeniable soft spot for the eldest Stark daughter, Jaime's own little wife, and he visibly calmed, some of his infamous Baratheon fury quenched. "The girl wants her father with her at Casterly Rock, is that it? Her sisters too?"

Jaime nodded. "That's it. She's his eldest, and a large part of his family. Whose to deny a girl the rights to have her father with her while he recovers, though she has to leave to a new keep? The best solution is to send the father with her. It is best he is with family that can understand more than an eleven year old and a nine year old. If you truly need the man as your Hand so terribly, we can discuss it with him once he has recovered."

"I don't like you. I'd sooner shove you in the smallest cell in King's Landing..." Robert glared at him with hard blue eyes, black bead melting with the hair on his head, and for a moment he looked like a black maned lion. "But your wife I like. I'll keep Eddard with me until he wakes up and he can decide then, and should he choose to spend his time with his daughter, then I'll accept Mace Tyrell as my Hand."

"I have one more request," Jaime said, raising his chin higher. "Lyla rather enjoys Myrcella and Tommen..."

"... Yes yes, they can go with you if you leave. They need a damned mother. Gods know theirs doesn't do enough for them." Jaime should have felt angry at Robert for slighting Cersei, but he couldn't feel anything but agreement. Myrcella and Tommen were best off with a woman who would attend to them. Who would love them and teach them well. Jaime felt his heart wretch as he wished he'd had someone to do so for him growing up.

_But I have Lyla now_, he thought as he promptly left the room, _a__nd she'll attend to me. She'll love me_. Part of him wanted to believe it, but another part could feel dark tidings rolling in. There couldn't be calm forever; eventually a storm would break into the bay that was their life and wash everything away. Jaime could only hope Lyla wouldn't be one that was pulled out to the ominous black sea. She or their child.

_*Holy cow, I'm back! I know it's been practically a month since I've updated, but I had two weeks of straight testing, exams, and finals! It put a huge damper on my availability to write; but it's summer time now, so I'm trying to get more up, more often._  
_I said these next few chapters would be more plot driven, and they will be. This chapter was admittedly more filler-esque, which is a reason in its own not to like it, but it covers a lot of feelings on Jaime's behalf, as well as Cersei's, in a way._  
_As to the way Robert acted towards giving Myrcella and Tommen to Jaime and Lyla so freely; I think he wouldn't really mind, seeing as Jaime is (or so he thinks) their maternal Uncle, and they'd be going where they would be immediate family to the Lannisters, and since Tywin holds nothing against the two, they'd be fairly, if not extremely, safe there. As well as the fact that he doesn't see them anyways, nor does Cersei really, so what's the point of holding them there where they would only be unhappy?__And I don't think that Cersei would take to hearing of Lyla's pregnancy too well, and since she's sort of crazy... There you have it._  
_I hope I explained the reasoning for Lancel replacing Jaime well enough. If not, let me know what you need clarified and I can try better next chapter. :)_  
_Just wanted to extent my sincerest thanks to you all for supporting me so much! I can't even express how ecstatic I am over all of these reviews, favorites, and follows! They just make me giddy! You're all great! _  
_Enjoy and have a swell day, sweeties!_


	26. Chapter 26

The sun was twirling into the sky blazon with dull oranges and deep maroons, lilac clouds parting for its way and the firmament melting from rich sapphires to a vivid cerulean. A slight breeze picked up and with it was a brush of warmth against her skin. She leaned into it, sighing as she curled further into the furs that had covered her since dawn, when she first woke and went to the balcony she'd now lain on for hours.

Jaime had been gone searching for Lancel Lannister and Jory Cassel for nearly a sennight now, and sleep was harder to come by without him. Normally if she had a bad dream or couldn't fall back asleep, he would stay up with her and talk to her or hold her until she slipped into dreaming once more, but now she was alone in their room, and his half of the bed had long since grown cold.

So, when she woke before the moon had gone down, she decided to go to the balcony and watch the world fade from night to day until Carinya would be awake and could help her get ready- and what a beautiful equilibrium she beheld. She'd witnessed the stars disappear from their twinkling finesse and the curled moon dance to the horizon as it ran from the burning sun, which brought heat to each particle that was consumed by its light.

There was a quiet creaking of her door and Lyla turned, expecting Carinya, but her eyes widened in surprise when Tommen Baratheon slipped into her chamber. He was all loose gold curls and tired green eyes, rubbing them with the back of his fists. "Aunt Lyla, I had a bad dream," he murmured, toddling to her.

When he reached her, she opened her arms and wrapped them around him, pulling him onto her lap. He leaned into her and nuzzled close, curling under the furs that she tugged from around her to lay over them. "It must have been an awful one for you to trek all the way over here," she whispered to him, pressing her lips to his temple. "What happened in your dream, sweet boy?"

He looked up at her and frowned, and she saw so much of Jaime in him that it was queer. Before she had time to think on it, though, he laid his head on her chest and sighed. "Mother was crying, but when I tried to dry her tears she hit me... And Father was bleeding and Joffrey was wearing his crown." The boy's voice grew shaky and she held him closer, running her fingers through his hair.

"Shhh. Don't cry, sweet. Are you thirsty? Hungry?" Tommen nodded at both and she rose, hoisting him onto her shoulder. "Alright, let's go down to the kitchens and I'll have the cook fix you a big breakfast."

She pulled on a heavy robe and tied her hair into a quick braid before taking the little prince to the Great Hall, him laying in the crook of her neck and rubbing his back. A maid went to her but she put a finger to her lips, shaking her head. Tommen had fallen asleep to the bobbing motion of Lyla padding down the grand staircase, and she didn't want to wake him just yet.

"Ask the cook to make the Prince a meal, please," she whispered to the maid. "Some soft boiled egg and meat and bread, and make sure there are sweet things for him. He likes those small cakes with the berries- do you know what those are called?"

"The sweetcakes, my lady," said the maid.

"Yes, yes. Fetch some of those for the Prince and if you could bring me some milk, please." The young girl nodded and smiled before heading towards the kitchen and Lyla went to sit at a table with large cushioned chairs that had tall velvet backs and could hold both she and Tommen when she rested him beside her, wrapping the fur cover over him and brushing hair from his eyes.

While she waited she sipped on water and leaned back into the chair, wondering why the little Prince hadn't gone to his parents. Though, she could understand him not turning to Cersei after she'd hit him, even if it was only just a dream. But there was still Robert, or even Myrcella would have let him sleep with her in her room, she knew, but he'd chosen her- a chamber that lay almost all the way across the whole Keep.

A tray was placed before her, full of cheese breads and honey and a pitcher of milk, and Lyla thanked the maid with a warm smile before kissing the Prince's cheek and caressing his temple. "Wake, Tommen," she murmured, and he smiled bright when he saw her.

"Mother always sends me away when I've had dreams," he told her as he reached for a piece of plain brown bread and dipped it heavily in honey, licking his lips eagerly. "She never takes me or Cella down to the hall when we're upset. Only Joffy."

"Is that right? Well I'll take you down here any time you want to be taken down, how about that?" Lyla laughed when he dropped the bread on the table and hugged her neck, giggling.

"I wish you were my mother," Tommen said, leaning into her, and she could feel her eyes widen.

Cersei may not have been a good mother, but she was a fierce lioness and loved them as much as her heart allowed. "Your mother loves you very much, Tommen," Lyla chastised lightly. "It would break her heart to hear you say such things."

"It would, wouldn't it?" Lyla's head snapped up and her eyes of ice landed on those of grey-green. He took the next two trays from the maid and offered her leave, resting them on the table. "My, aren't you a busy little wolf? With child yourself but trying to steal more? Is the one inside of you not enough, sweet Lady Lannister?"

"_You_." She steeled, glaring up at the man she'd disliked from the start. "You were with my father when Lancel attacked. Why did you not help?"

"But I did. I went for the City Watch, who carried your lord father inside to the Maester's chamber."

"You are a coward for leaving him alone." She held her hands over Tommen's small ears as he nibbled on a slice of the sweetcake. "And you dare insist I am stealing children? Keeping them protected and well looked after is one thing but stealing?"

Littlefinger shrugged and then gave her an odd smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You look nothing like your mother. Even your eyes are more grey than hers were. No, you're a Stark child for true, with that snow skin and dark hair. You would have made a fine Tully, though, with a personality like that. All fury and quick temper with no true thought to it. Just look at your silly headed Uncle Edmure."

Lyla wanted to stand. To unsheathe a sword and slice his chest open where her Uncle Brandon had done before, to loose and arrow into his skull, but not with the Prince by her side. And perhaps that is why he waited so long to confront her. Instead, she settled for saying, "I'm through speaking with you." The Prince looked up at her with large green eyes and she smiled down at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead before releasing his face, his ears now free.

The short man before her held his hands up and stepped back. "I only mean to warn you of one thing, my lady. That you are in a dangerous city with dangerous people around you. Life is not a song, here in the game of thrones, and eventually your time will come." He sauntered away and Lyla narrowed her eyes at his figure as it enveloped into the shadows of the hall.

"What did he mean by that, Aunt Lyla?" Tommen asked, mouth full of a slice of charred black bacon.

"I don't know, little Prince, but pay it no mind. He's just a small man with far too many short comings," she replied, taking a bite of a cherry.

"Aunt Lyla... What are short comings?"

She laughed at that, and then the Prince followed, and she ruffling his bed-messed golden locks. "When you're older, perhaps you'll find out. Come along then, eat up. I'll take you to your room to dress after and you can spend the day with me, alright?" He nodded and quickly began stuffing his face, and Lyla grinned as he drooled honey all over his night trousers, eagerly gulping down milk so they could start their day together as soon as possible.

Once Tommen was donned in a top of rich grey velvet with ivory embroidery and bottoms to match, with black boots and a short dark cape, Lyla herself took to dressing. She wore a long silver-gold gown with long dagged sleeves and a sash of crimson to match her red-painted boots and had brushed and braided her hair down her back, where it reached the small of it.

"Ready?" She asked once he entered her chamber with a bright grin. He nodded and she smiled. "Good. I thought I could take you to the kennels first... I heard one of the barn cats gave birth to kittens not long ago."

"Really, did they?" He squealed and she laughed, bobbing her head. "Oh I love Kittens, Aunt Lyla, how did you know?"

She smirked and lifted him to her hip, tickling under his chin. "I'm your Aunt, I'm supposed to know these things," she murmured, nodding to the guards that Jaime had sent to keep watch on her. They'd just woken up it seemed, for when she'd taken the Prince down to the kitchens they had been off post, probably sleeping or donning their armor. But they were there now, clad in crimson metal with golden lions screaming on their breast plates, and she was glad for it. If anyone dared an attack on her today, they'd be attacking Tommen as well, and that wouldn't do.

They made their way to the kennels, Lyla and Tommen walking just before four guards, one of which was one of Jaime's closest friends, Addam Marbrand. He would give her reassuring smiles, and with his copper-ruby hair and easy laugh, she felt more at home. He was like a mixture of Robb and Theon and Jaime, all in one, and she knew they would be fast friends.

The kennel master nodded to them and she set Tommen down once they entered, pointing to a box in the back of the room. "Go see them, sweet one," she said, grinning when he ran off as fast as his pudgy legs could take him.

"You're sweet to the little Prince," Marbrand noted, and she smiled. "It's a good thing you are. Nobody else is."

She regarded him for a moment before she followed Tommen, where he already had a few kittens crawling on him. "Look, Aunt Lyla, look at me! They like me!" He giggled.

"Of course they do, Tommen, they love sweet boys," she said, picking one up and running her hand along its spine and down its tail. It was a fluffy white kitten with large brown eyes that spoke not a meow. It reminded her of Ghost, Jon's direwolf, and she suddenly found herself wondering how he was. He'd returned her letters, but only with short words whereas hers were pages long. The kitten finally began purring and she was pulled out of her thoughts quickly.

Tommen was holding a particular kitten very close, grinning widely at it. It was pale brown with white stockings crawling halfway up its leg. It's eyes were bright green, much like Tommen's, but with yellow rimming the pupil, and dark russet zags on its body and down the back of its legs, brindling them in a way. "This one will be King Paws," he declared. "And this one," he held up a similar looking kitten, only it's eyes were blue with silver rimming the pupils and it had no white socks, "will be his Queen Purr."

"Will they be that?" Lyla laughed and kissed each of the little cats on the head before he released them to rub against his legs and meow expectantly. Looking up to the kennel master, he shrugged and nodded, giving the Prince permission to have the cats without words. She mouthed a thank you and looked to Addam Marbrand. "Would you mind bringing the Prince Tommen a nice basket for his new kittens, please?"

He smiled at the boy and nodded, muttering to the other guards to stay there while he went off to fetch the basket. Her attention was tugged back to Tommen when he squealed in delight as a kitten pounced on a string he'd pulled from the box and swung around the floor. She remembered one year, for her seventh name day Willas had sent her a kitten as well, but Sansa had been so taken with it that she'd let her younger sister keep it. It was a little yellow cat with brown eyes that the red haired girl had named Lemoncakes.

"When Ser Addam comes back, can we go show Mother and Father my kittens?" Tommen asked, and Lyla nodded.

"Of course we can, Tommen. I'm sure they'll love King Paws and Queen Purr." She ran her fingers through his hair and watched the white kitten that she was petting before run along and chase the tail of King Paws.

By the time that Addam came back, Tommen was laying on his belly and cuddling with kittens all around him, and a small orange kitten was resting on Lyla's leg. "My Prince," he said, setting the basket down before the little golden boy. He gasped and jumped up excitedly, grabbing it. It was all white wicker with plush violet velvets on the bottom and a tall handle to help carry the baby cats with that was wrapped with lilac silk.

Tommen immediately ran after King Paws and Queen Purr, placing them inside the basket. They mewed and stared up at them with their green and blue eyes and he giggled all anew, clapping his hands and grabbing the basket, running all around the room with it. The dogs in the pins along the walls barked and howled and Lyla began placing the kittens back in the box, kissing each one, before she rose and followed to where Tommen had run out of the Kennels.

"Come on, Aunt Lyla, let's go show Mother and Father! And Myrcella, too! Come on!" He ran ahead and she looked to her guards. "Where are the King and Queen?" She asked, raising a brow, and they all murmured amongst themselves before Addam spoke up.

"I believe that they'll be visiting your Lord father some time today. He's just woken up, I'm told, my lady," he said.

Her eyes widened and she raised a brow. "Why did you not tell me of this immediately?" She asked. "He's my father. You didn't think to tell his daughter?" She clenched her fists and narrowed her eyes, running after Tommen and picking him up, holding him at her hip as he clutched his basket of kittens, and racing towards the Tower of the Hand, her guards chasing after them.

* * *

He was still laying down and looked awfully pained, long dark hair splayed around him and deep grey eyes catching the light in a way that made them look translucent. "Tell him I'm too weak to come to him. If he wishes to speak with me, I should be pleased to receive him here. I hope you wake him from a sound sleep. And summon..."

She frowned and hiked Tommen higher on her hip. He must have forgotten that Jory was missing. "... Summon none. I will tend to my father," she said to Vayon Poole.

Eddard looked to his daughter and sighed in what seemed relief. He motioned for her to come to him and she did, setting Tommen down and taking his hand, feeling tears tickle her cheeks. Tears of joy they were, for even though she'd visited him every day with the girls, he hadn't been awake in a week. He smiled to her and she pressed her lips to his knuckles, Tommen running up to him.

"Look, Lord Stark, Aunt Lyla gave me kittens!" He sat the two newborn cats onto his bed and grinned wildly. This is King Paws, you see? And this is Queen Purr. They're very good friends already." Lyla ruffled his hair and her father patted the kittens and thanked Tommen for showing them to him. "Aunt Lyla is spending the day with me," he said proudly. "We're going to show my Mother and Father the kittens."

"How good of you," said her father, nodding.

"I'll be right with you, Tommen. Why don't you go play with King Paws and Queen Purr with Ser Addam?" She looked up at the guard and he nodded to her, stepping forward and helping Tommen take the kittens towards the back of the room, where they began playing. She turned back to her father and smiled at him. "It's been six days," she told him. "and Lancel has fled. Jaime took Loras and Rose and a few others to go searching for him and Jory. I had a few extra guards put on your charge, from Jaime's men. Everyone is talking of how Mother took Tyrion..."

Ned pursed his lips and eyed her warily. "And the girls? How are they? How are you?"

"They have been with you every day. I bring them myself. Sansa prays quietly, but Arya... She has not said a word since they brought you back. She is a fierce little thing, Father. I've never seen her so angry. She has more wolf's blood than Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna ever did, I'm sure." Lyla leaned into his palm as he brought it up to her cheek. "I am well enough... Just lonely is all... Father, there is something I must tell you."

He raised a brow and sat up more. "Tell me," he insisted.

She smiled and grabbed the hand he held to her cheek, bringing it down to her belly, holding it there. "Jaime and I... are going to have a..."

"A little lion," he finished, staring at her with wide eyes. They were both scared and nervous, though she could see no true happiness in them. She forced herself not to frown or fret. No man wants their daughter to grow up so fast, married and expecting a child. With the Kingslayer, no less, though Lyla didn't see him that way. She was young, she knew, but for only being sixteen for a few days time now she also knew she acted much older. She expected she looked like a disappointed child right then, however.

Someone entered the room and they both looked up to see Vayon Poole. "His Grace is without, my lord, and the queen with him," he said. Her father pushed himself higher, wincing at his leg's pain, and sighed.

"Send them in, and leave. What we have to say should not go beyond these walls." He looked to Lyla, but she shook her head, implying strongly that she was naught to be sent away.

"Ser Addam, please go stand outside with the others... Tommen, come here, sweet." She moved to sit in a chair at the foot of his bed and Tommen plopped onto her lap, cuddling the King and Queen of kittens.

Robert had certainly spent time in dressing. He was donned in a black velvet doublet with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon it, right on the breast, sewn of golden silk and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares crested his shoulders. In his hand was a flagon of wine and his face was flushed with drink already. Beside him was Cersei, a jeweled tiara in her hair.

They looked from Ned to Lyla, Cersei growling with distaste when she saw Tommen on her lap, and the little boy lit up when he saw his parents. "Mother, Father, look at what Aunt Lyla got me!" He slipped from her lap and with him were the two kittens. He held one up in each hand and handed one to each of his parents. Robert took the kitten and smiled at his son, rubbing his back encouragingly, and Cersei held the other, petting it lightly but not even looking at Tommen.

"Your Grace," her father said, trying to sit up even further. "Your pardons. I cannot rise."

Robert waved his hand, shaking his head. "No matter," he muttered. "Some wine? From the Arbor. A good vintage."

"A small cup," said Ned. "My head is still heavy from the milk of the poppy."

"A man in your place should count himself fortunate that his head is still on his shoulders," Cersei declared, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Quiet woman," Robert snapped as he brought his friend a cup of wine. He looked to Lyla, wondering if she would want any, but she shook her head. Septa Mordane had told her of the defects children were born with when mother's drank wine while pregnant. "Does the leg still pain you?" He asked of Ned.

"Some," admitted Eddard. She knew he would not want to show pain in front of the queen, so he would never say that it hurt as much as she knew it did.

She shifted Tommen to one knee and took his hand, smiling. "Pycelle swears it will heal clean."

Robert nodded in agreement, then frowned. "I take it you know what Catelyn has done?"

"I do." Her father took a sip from the cup. "My lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did she did at my command."

"I am _not_ pleased, Ned." Robert pet the kitten on his knee, King Paws, until he purred, and Cersei released Queen Purr, who bounded to Tommen and sat on his lap.

"By what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?" Cersei hissed. "Who do you think you are?"

"The Hand of the King," Ned defended with ice behind his steel grey eyes. "Charged by your own lord husband to keep the king's peace and enforce the king's justice."

"You _were_ the Hand," she began, "but now-"

Lyla barely had time to cup her hand's over Tommen's ears before Robert roared, "_Silence! _ You asked him a question he answered it." Cersei subsided, and though she was emanating anger and ice, Robert turned back towards Ned. "Keep the king's peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Seven men are dead..."

"Eight," Cersei corrected. "Tregar died this morning, of the blow Lord Stark gave him."

Tommen squirmed and her hands fell from his face when he got up and ran to his father. He plucked the kitten up and put them both in the basket, carrying it to Lyla. "I want to go show Cella the kittens... You can stay with your father if you want." He turned to Cersei and she sighed, as though it were the worst inconvenience for her son to want to be walked by his mother to go see his sister.

"Come along," she murmured to him, rising and leaving before he had time to toddle after her. He was such a small boy, only seven years of age. He didn't deserve to be such a burden on his mother.

Robert nodded after the boy and then turned to Ned, serious of face. "Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets," the king said. "I will not have it, Ned."

"Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp-"

"I said, I will _not_ have it! To hell with her reasons. You will command her to release the dwarf at once, _and_ you will make peace with Lancel, fool as he may be."

"Three of my men were butchered before my eyes, because Tywin Lannister wished to _chasten_ me by use of that boy Lancel. Am I to forget that?"

"Your Grace, see to reason. Lancel attacked my father out of spite, no more. The queen may whisper of brothels and whores and drink all she likes to you, but you know my father better than that, Robert. Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt him. He was there- I saw him there," Lyla said in defense of her father, squeezing his hand.

"I've talked to Littlefinger," Robert said. "He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some whorehouse."

"_Some_ whorehouse? Damn your eyes, Robert, I was there to have a look at your daughter! Her mother named her Barra. She looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together in the Vale." He glanced to Lyla as he spoke, and she looked to Robert. He seemed flushed all anew.

"Barra," he muttered. "Is that supposed to please me? Damn the girl. I thought she had more sense."

"She cannot be more than fifteen, and a whore, and you thought she had sense?" Lyla raised a brow at the king and he looked away, grumbling. Her father sighed and she turned to him, noticing that his leg must be paining him something awful. "The fool child is in love with you, Robert," her father told his oldest friend.

Robert glanced to Lyla. "This is no fit subject for the lady's ears."

Her father simply sighed, for they all knew how bawdy Lyla was, and continued. "I am told the young Lannister has fled the city. Give me leave to join my daughter's husband to bring him back to justice."

Robert swallowed from his cup, pondering, before he finally spoke. "No," he said. "I want no more of this. Lancel slew three of your men, and you five of his. Now it ends."

"Is that your notion of justice?" Ned flared. "If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your Hand."

"If any man had dared speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you..." Cersei stood in the doorway now, leaning on it, eying her husband with a strong distaste.

"Do you take me for Aerys?" He asked with fury.

"I took you for a _king_. Lancel and Tyrion are your own brother and cousin, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. The Starks have driven off one and seized the other. This man dishonors you with ever breath he takes, and yet you stand there meekly, asking his his leg pains him and would he like some wine."

Robert's face darkened to that of an eggplant with the anger that swirled under his cheeks. "How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?"

The queen's face looked a mask of steel, neither indifferent nor interested. "What a jape the gods have made of us two," she said. "By all rights, you ought to be in skirts and me in mail."

Raging and furious, Robert lashed out with an iron back-hand to the side of his wife's head. She stumbled against the table and slumped hard to the ground, but Cersei did not cry out. She reached a small hand up, where slender fingers brushed along her already reddening cheek. By night, her face would be half gold and half black, and a Baratheon she would look for true. "I shall wear this as a badge of honor," she announced.

"Wear it in silence, or I'll honor you again." Robert glared at her with daggers in his eyes, and when he shouted for a guard, Ser Meryn Trant entered, looking ever somber in his scaled white armor. "The queen is tired. See her to her bedchamber." Without a word or question, the knight helped her to her feet and led her out just as Robert filled his cup again. Lyla looked to him with dark eyes, however, and put a hand over his cup, shaking her head.

He frowned and tossed the cup to the corner, seating himself. The rage was gone, and in its place was sadness and fright. "My loving wife. The mother of my children. I should not have hit her. That was not... that was not _kingly_." He stared down at the two fists in his lap as though they were cleavers and not hands. "I was always strong... no one could stand before me, no one. How do you fight someone if you can't hit them?" He shook his head and looked up at Lyla. "Rhaegar... Rhaegar_ won_, damn him. I killed him, girl, I drove the spike right through that black armor into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made up songs about it. Yet somehow he still won. He has Lyanna now, and I have_ her_."

"Your Grace," Lyla said. "We must talk..." It was the most opportune moment to discuss her and Jaime leaving with her father, the girls, and the royal children.

But Robert pressed his fingers against his temples. "I am sick unto death of talk. On the morrow I'm going to the kingswood to hunt. Whatever you have to say can wait until I return."

"If the gods are good, we shall not be here upon your return," Lyla murmured. "You commanded my father to return to Winterfell, remember? He'll be coming with Jaime and I, and my sisters and your children, to Casterly Rock. Until he is better and well enough to travel home, to the North."

"The gods are seldom good, Lyla." Robert tossed her father the Hand's pin- a heavy silver hand clasp. "Here, this is yours. Like it or not, you are my Hand, damn you. I forbid you to leave."

Lyla watched in horror as her father toyed with the pin. There was no room for choice in this demand, she knew. "The Targaryen girl-" he was cut off by the king.

"Seven hells, don't start with her again. That's done, I'll hear no more of it."

Lyla narrowed her eyes and stood, folding her arms over her belly. "Why would you want him as your Hand, if you refuse to listen to his counsel?"

He looked at her, exasperated. "Why? Why not? Someone has to rule this damnable kingdom. Put on the badge, Ned. It suits you. And if you ever throw it in my face again, I swear to you, I'll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister." Lyla tried to speak, but he hushed her. "Quiet. You can take those girls and my son and daughter with you to that damn castle, but not my Hand. I'll not budge on it."

He left in a swirl of cloak and boots, his guards following him, and Lyla looked to her father fearfully. "I'm not leaving without you," she said, lip quivering. "I'm not, I swear it."

Eddard took his daughter's hand and kissed it, frowning. "You'll go with your husband and you'll take Sansa and Arya with you. I'm not putting you in danger here in the capitol. You or your little cub."

Her eyes grew wet and she released a quiet sob, moving to curl up beside him on the bed. "I cannot leave you. You're my father and I love you," she whispered as he wrapped an arm around her and she laid her head on his chest, tears falling to his doublet. "The lone wolf dies while the pack survives, Father. I'll_ not_ let you be a lone wolf."

He hugged her close and she looked up at him with watery eyes. Ned kissed the top of her head and sighed. "That husband of yours will never let you stay here with me. He'll make you go and I'll let him take you. Lyla, I may be Hand but I am your father first and foremost. I will not allow you to be harmed."

"And I won't be," she said, "because I'll be with you."

"It is because you will be with me that you will be harmed."

He stared down at her sadly and she reached a hand up to his face, giving him a sullen, dark smile as she started to hum a song he and Catelyn used to sing to her when she was small.

"_If I talk real slow, if I hold your hand._  
_If you look real closely, my love you might understand..._"

_*Here's to another update! We'll get to Jaime and why he's taking so long to come home in the next chapter. _  
_As far as any faces I might imagine when I think of Lyla, I would say that she would resemble Arwen Evenstar (Liv Tyler) of Lord of the Rings most over any other person I could think of. _  
_Also, I got a message saying that my Lyla is too much like Arya for their appreciation of the story... I just wanted you all to know that I'm not trying to remake Arya. She is a very unique character and deserves to be original. I am trying to mold Lyla to be more like Lyanna Stark than anyone else in the series, but since there isn't much to go off of with that, I can only try and do the best that I can._  
_Thank you for all of your undying support, dears! You are wonderful and I don't deserve you :3_  
_I appreciate you all, you sweet little doves, you. Enjoy, and have a beautiful morning!__(PS: The song used at the end of the chapter is Angus & Julia Stone's For you. They're a lovely group, and I hope you look them up! I adore them.)_


	27. Chapter 27

The faint sound of a single drop of water hitting cold stone woke him, and he slowly opened his eyes, peering into the darkness. At first glance he could tell there was a single candle in the room, with no furniture aside from a small chest and the cot he lay on. Slowly he sat up, rubbing his eyes and taking a second look.

There was a small line of windows towards the top of the chamber, all closed but the sun shining through them, and when he made to move out of the cot there was a light whimpering.

He shot up immediately and looked down to where he saw a large mound of pepper brown fur beside the bunk. It unwound itself and he sighed in relief when she raised her head and looked up at him with big brown eyes. It was Rose, Lyla's direwolf.

Jaime sat back down and ruffled the fur on the wolf's neck, leaning into her. Now it was clear why he was in this cold cell.

Lancel had been a ploy, a pawn used by his father to get him to Casterly Rock. He'd been furious when he found out about it, had sent Loras back to King's Landing and whatever guards wanted to follow, along with a wounded Jory Cassel. But he'd been taken, sent to the place that was home but had never felt as much.

"You _will_ help me take your brother back, Jaime, and I'll hear no quarrel on it," Tywin had said, staring up from his maps and letters with cold pale green eyes. "And should you fight me I'll lock you in a cell. Until you decide to _stop_ acting like a _fool_ and _start_ acting like the_ lion_ you are."

Jaime _had_ fought, and brilliantly at that, though it lead him nowhere but a chilly room of only stones with a single box for a change of clothes and the wolf of Lyla's. Tyrion was his brother, but Lyla was his wife. He would have no part in what might happen to the Starks due to his father's will.

There was a loud clanking of boots on the cold cobble and Jaime looked up to see a torch lighting the hallway as a man crept towards his door, all metal but for a slot on the top to speak from and on the bottom to slide trays into. "My lord," came a quiet voice, and Jaime raised a brow, rising and going towards the door. The men who brought him things never called him that, only Ser Jaime or simply Ser.

"Who is it?" He asked, fingering Rose's fur as she stood and followed him to the entrance of the room. "Well?"

"My lord, it is Maester Creylen," the voice said, and Jaime peeked over the top opening to see a withered old man with kind grey eyes and thick brown robes, chain tied loosely around him. "I am here to look at your wounds."

_Oh_, Jaime thought. He'd almost forgotten about the wounds he'd suffered when he defied his father's will and the guards had wrathfully tried to drag him down to the cells. There was a long cut on his arm, much like Lyla's only less so, and a black bruise on his forehead from when the guards threw him into the room, cut open and still weeping blood.

"Come in," he told the maester, making his way back to the cot.

The door cried in distress as the man shoved multiple keys in to the designated locks and pushed it open, swaggering in and shutting it behind him. He was carrying a box full of bottles and gauze and tools, as well as a tray with his morning meal.

"Thank you," Jaime mumbled as the man set the tray atop the box that held his clothes so that he didn't have to sit on the cold ground to eat.

"Of course, my lord." Creylen gave him a smile and looked to the direwolf with wide eyes. "So the rumors are true then? Direwolves after so many years hidden away beyond the Wall. Such a shame this one is so far from her master. Tell me, does your lady wife fare well?" He began rolling up the sleeve of Jaime's doublet, to reach the wound that had been hastily wrapped by himself once he'd gotten inside of the cell.

He pursed his lips. "I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me," he said hesitantly. Maester Creylen had been kind to Jaime when he was a boy, so maybe he would be kind now. "Do you know of any word that my father may have received? Of my wife or her father or sisters?"

The maester pulled a glass bottle from the box and pulled at the cap with his teeth until it opened, and he poured the liquid over Jaime's arm. It burned, and he hissed and gripped the cot with a white-knuckled fist. "As you know your father confides with your uncle more so than any other..." He looked up at Jaime. "But your uncle does trust me. He tells me that Lord Stark has woken, and that the King has taken to hunting. I've also heard of your wife's certain success in the marriage bed. Congratulations, my lord."

"But no news of her?" He shouldn't give way that he was vulnerable when it came to Lyla, as he was then, but he trusted this maester. He was no Varys, only a kind old man. Creylen shook his head. _At least Stark is awake. Maybe he'll have the sense to stay out of Casterly Rock for now_, Jaime thought, hoping that the man was smarter than to allow his family to travel to a place where they would just stay hostage, and perhaps even be killed.

As the old man began re wrapping Jaime's arm, he looked up with kind eyes. "My lord, perhaps if you help your father..."

"I will not help him destroy my wife's family." Jaime cut him off haughtily, narrowing his own eyes.

"I'm not saying that is what you must help him with," said the man softly. "But perhaps you can come to terms with his lordship, and make him see reason to a proper trade. Have the Lady Catelyn come to King's Landing with Lord Tyrion and we can have a proper trial."

Jaime considered the maester for a moment, but then shook his head. "It would never work. Catelyn Stark wants her own justice, and my father wants justice too. But a different kind."

"Revenge is not justice, my lord." Creylen gave him a meaningful look and tied the wrap together, along with cleaning the opened wound on his forehead before putting his viles back into his box and standing straight. "Your father does all he does for the House. But I like to think he also does it because somewhere, he loves you. However grudgingly he would like to admit it. You are his son, and Tyrion as well. He is just trying to protect his cubs."

With that the man left and Jaime was alone in the room with Rose, staring at the door. After much deliberation, he shouted out the open slot on the top of the metalwork. "Tell my father I'll help him," he called out the chamber, and he could hear the maester pause.

"As you wish, -" It was all Jaime needed to hear before he turned back to the room, ruffled the direwolf's fur and went to his tray of food, digging into it. The meals were all extravagant, for a Lannister deserved no less in Casterly Rock, locked in a cell or no.

Maester Creylen was right. Jaime needed to stop being stubborn and start being rational. If not for his own sake, then for Lyla's. She was carrying their babe and should war break between House Lannister and House Stark, she would be caught in the middle. She was both, born a Stark and married to a Lannister. Where would her loyalties lie? _With House Stark_, a voice in his head told him,_ it always will_. But their child would be a bastard, a Lannister bastard, should she choose the Starks- and she loved Jaime. Perhaps she would choose lions over wolves. Or stay neutral.

Rose came up beside him and curled close, laying her head on his lap. It was heavy, and the wolf was the size of a pony now. A child could ride on it, or perhaps a small woman even, about the size of Lyla's red haired sister Sansa. "You're getting big," he murmured to the wolf, rubbing her back and feeding her a few rolls from the tray as he ate some steak, seasoned with peppers and honey.

The wolf whined, as if in agreement, and Jaime placed the tray between them, allowing her to eat what she wanted once he'd had his fill. Rising, he kicked the box containing the one pair of clothes and it popped open. He bent down, ripping his top and bottoms off before dressing in the fresh garb and running his fingers through his hair. A guard would come to take him to his father any moment, and going to see Tywin dressed in soiled garb was no option.

* * *

The daylight had stung his eyes and burned him as he entered the world of Casterly Rock, Rose at his side and leashed with a thick scarf. The men all cowered at the sight of the direwolf, and Jaime smirked at them. He knew this wolf was of the gentlest nature, but they didn't. They thought she would snap at any time, but Rose wasn't the kind to go against her owner's wishes. She would only attack if Lyla told her to, and Lyla wasn't there.

He was led through countless corridors and halls, all familiar but not. It was like he was a child again, running through the castle with Cersei and Tyrion trailing behind him, carrying the finest of wooden swords, painted gold. He could almost hear their young laughter as it bounced off the walls and resonated within him. Times had been so simple when they were children. When they weren't a knight and a queen and the Imp. When there was love.

They turned a corner and Jaime found himself in the Lord's Chamber, his father standing before him, hunched over papers and maps, the very room that he had been in when he instructed Jaime be sent to a cell for disobeying. "Sit down," he commanded, not yet looking up.

Jaime sat in a chair of plush red velvet and Rose lay at his feet, eying Tywin cautiously and nudging at his legs. "Father," he greeted, rubbing the wolf's neck as the hairs stood on it.

The Great Lion of Casterly Rock finally looked at him, pale green eyes flecked with gold grown to ice. "So you have decided to throw childish games aside and serve your family?" He asked, steel in his voice. It wasn't a true question, though, for he knew it was rather a confirmation of whispers.

"I have," Jaime said "but only if to come to an agreement between lions and wolves. There needs not be war between us."

"There needs not be," Lord Tywin agreed, "but House Stark must be put in their place. Their silly northern games are not law here in the West and we will not allow them to do as they want simply because their lord is Hand. There must be sense."

"Sense would be to call Catelyn Stark to court with Tyrion and see them justice by the laws of the king," said Jaime. "I believe that this can very easily be solved."

His father raised a brow and pulled away from the desk, sitting in the great chair behind it. "Robert is on a hunting trip with his brother, Renly, and your cousin Tyrek," he informed.

"So we will wait until he gets back," Jaime said. "It can't take that long, can it?"

Tywin raised a brow at his son and resumed looking at his maps. "I heard of your wife's pregnancy," he said, changing the subject. "I had expected you and the northern girl to move into Casterly Rock by that time."

"Surely you know I can't take a Stark here while we are near waging war on them?" Jaime snorted at the stupidity of it, and his father shot his eyes up at him, cold and unforgiving.

"I know that you can take your wife to Casterly Rock, where she will be safest while she carries the heir of House Lannister. I will not have her running freely around Westeros when her duty if first to our House."

Jaime stared at his father for a long time, eyes growing hard. Tywin was speaking to him like he knew naught of how to take care of his wife and keep her safe- and if truth be told, he was so angry because it was true. He would not have left her in King's Landing while he went out searching for his cousin. It was a terrible move in the game, to leave Lyla unattended like that, even with Addam Marbrand as one of her four guards.

He raked a hand through his hair, clutching Rose with the other. "You will send for her," Tywin said. His voice drew Jaime from his thoughts.

"She will never come." He looked up at his father with a stony expression, one that was Lannister through and through. "She will stay with her family that needs her, and I will go to her."

"Go to her? Do you think me a fool? I'll not let you leave your responsibilities behind for some northern girl. You _will stay_." Tywin stood, folding his arms. His voice never rose, it only grew colder.

There was a silence between them and Jaime could feel the vibrations ripple through Rose as she growled. "My child will not be safe without its father," Jaime tried, eyes hard on the ground.

"Your child will not be safe without House Lannister to protect it. I will send envoys to King's Landing. Should your wife wish to stay there, she will be forced here, rather come willingly. I'll not have my heir go without."

"It is _my_ child -"

"- and _my_ grandchild. Do you truly believe I had you taken from the Kingsguard because it was something _you wanted_? Jaime, I did it for_ House Lannister_, and for the continuation of so. I will not allow the woman carrying the future Lord of Casterly Rock to stay in that cesspool of miscreants, and I will not allow her husband to indulge her. You will stay here and once your wife comes along with my men, you will leave with me to where your uncle Kevan has started to make arrangements for our encampment. Should the Starks be in want of war, we will be ready. Now leave me."

Tywin spoke to the guards quickly before Jaime was led away, but not in the direction of the cells- he was being taken to his old room, the one he'd had as a child.

Rose padded along side him and Jaime ran his fingers through her fur, pursing his lips as he entered the room and the door was closed behind him. The wolf ran to the bed and sprang up on it, and he walked to the balcony, stretching his arms on the length of the bannister. He sighed, staring out at the sea, warm and pink and glittering like a million diamonds before him. He could remember jumping from the cliffs and into the waters, hot in the summer breeze, Tyrion at his side.

Before he married Lyla, he would have attacked Ned Stark himself. He would have run to Casterly Rock to begin planning a desperate attack to bring his brother home. But he was a husband now- he was Lyla's husband, and she was carrying his babe. But did that truly change so much? Tyrion was his brother, his blood, and he missed him. It had been his demise to marry at all, though now he couldn't imagine life without his little wife. Her soft kisses and how she held his hand so gently and cuddled him through the nights when neither could sleep.

He closed his eyes and imagined her, brown curls falling to the small of her back and cool blue eyes so happy to see him as he burst through the door, Rose at her side. He could feel her touch, insistent and collective as the minutes passed. He could feel her belly, grown hard and round as the pregnancy developed. _A lion_, he thought, _she's carrying a lion_. A babe that she hoped so much would be a little boy with dark hair and grey eyes like her father. Years flashed in his mind and he could see the bobbing heads of children playing in the gardens, running along with one another, and he and Lyla strolled casually behind them.

Surely that was enough. Surely his wife and the child inside of her were enough reason as to why Jaime knew he couldn't risk himself in the ways he had before, when he was just the Kingslayer and not a husband first and foremost. He was needed now, not just in need, and he couldn't put himself in a position that could get him killed when he had a family waiting for him across the Gold Road.

He sighed, making his way to the bed and curling up with Rose, pulling furs over himself and kicking his boots halfway across the room. Perhaps he would dream a solution to this mess, or perhaps he would dream of Lyla, and her sweet smiles, like he had every night since he'd been away.

_*Hello all! Sorry for the delay in updating (again!) and for the shortness of the chapter, but I simply didn't know how I wanted to portray the characters or what direction to take the chapter. I'm honestly kind of happy with where Jaime is at right now, emotionally and physically. This was a good chapter for his characterization in the story so far. :)_  
_Anyways, to make up for the lack in speed of updating and length of the update, I'll be uploading a new chapter very very soon- like, in less than a week! Expect it in a few days..As always, thank you for the support, review, follows, and favorites! They mean so much to me, as cheesy as that sounds, and I appreciate every single one of them- and every single one of you! Keep up the loveliness, dears! Have a wonderful evening :)_


	28. Chapter 28

She was in Winterfell.

The castle was covered in snow, more than she'd ever seen, and the sun's light was filtered through thick grey clouds. Crystals of winter's frost fell from the sky like tiny diamonds, twinkling in the dim brightness of the day. Laughter caught her attention, and she turned her head around, noticing a flash of deep brown locks. Fully spinning around, she saw four children. There were three boys, all gathered in bundles of fur and holding small wooden swords in their gloved hands. The only girl was sitting on a bench of whitewood, book in her hands though her eyes were not on the pages.

The small girl watched the three boys intently, making a study of them. The eldest looked to be at the most thirteen years of age, though they played around and practiced like those older than their time. "Come on, Benjen, you're too slow!" The tallest of the boys cried out as he whacked away at the lesser child.

Benjen huffed and clutched his little wood sword tighter before swinging at his elder brother. "He's not practiced as much as you, Brandon, and he's younger," said the little girl, who raised her chin high as she raised a dark brow at her brothers. "You can't believe he'll beat you?" Wise beyond her years was the girl, who shut her book and rose, folding her arms. "Why not practice with Eddard?"

"Yes, why not?" The middle boy crossed his arms and his stoney face held.

"If Benjen doesn't practice then he'll never be as good as I am," defended Brandon. "I'm only trying to teach him, Lya." Benjen fell to the snow with a final knock from his brother.

The girl stared her male counterpart with a stern eye. She couldn't have been more than six, but she had a force of iron underneath her already budding beauty, curls of brown falling to her lower waist and grey eyes calculating. Her youngest brother sat there with his own eyes of blue, dark hair ruffled from play, looking at his sister like a doe.

When she nodded to the boy, he stood once more, wiping snow from his trousers, and handed her the sword of wood- but she did not charge after her elder brother, she ran towards Lyla.

Stuck in fear, she could only feel her hot breath as it slapped her cheeks with each exhale and suddenly she could feel it, the sword slicing into her skin. When she looked down, she noticed the sword was no longer of wood, but metal, blood pouring around it. When she looked back up, it was not a six year old Lyanna Stark wielding it, but a woman well into her age with golden hair and bright green eyes.

"I told you she was just an ugly, dirty northerner," said the queen, looking towards a man that was equal to her in every way. "Do you see, Jaime? She is cut so easily." With another stab into her belly, the woman let her drop to her knees and Lyla felt hot tears rolling down her neck as she touched her stomach and whimpered.

_My baby_.

Awaking in a cold sweat, Lyla shot up, body roiling as she leaned off the side of the bed and emptied her belly. "Ca... Carinya!" She screamed out, coughing and falling hands and knees into the vile mess that she'd just vomited up, hair wetting in the liquid. "Carinya!" She called again. Her hand went to her stomach, holding it. Through her thin shift she could feel the spot that had grown harder with her pregnancy, now nearing its second month of progress.

Sitting back and caressing her belly, she felt the water slide down her face. The dreams had been coming more frequently now, the ones where she would lose the babe that grew within her or where she was home again- but she was not herself in those. Throwing her head back against the furs that hung low on the side of the bed, she let the sobs shake her body without resentment, sitting in her throw up, She hadn't time to worry about it, when she was already worrying about her babe. Was it a sign that in every dream she lost it? Was she going to lose it?

The door swung open and in came a rush of boots and soft slippers. Addam Marbrand knelt at her side and sighed, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her while Carinya fluttered at his side, mussing with her hair and pulling it back, drying the tears from under her eyes. It was not the first time that this had happened in the past two weeks that Jaime had been gone. Her ladymaid ensured her that it was normal for a woman with child to have strange dreams, but Lyla knew there was something more to her night terrors- there was something true in them.

Carinya quickly left to fetch hot water for a bath and Ser Addam lay Lyla in the tub. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the man who so reminded her of her brother, Robb. "I... could have walked in myself..."

"Nonsense," he said. "I'm here to help, my lady. Truly, I enjoy serving you." Ser Addam was a handsome man, with creamy skin and copper hair, and his sincerity was so comforting. She wondered how he_ enjoyed_ serving a tired, sick, pregnant woman all hours of the night, when he could and should be out romancing some pretty tavern maid.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaning into the giant tub. "Has there been any word of Jaime yet?" She asked, looking to him from the corner of her eye. The answer would be the same as it was every day, but asking made her feel better for some reason. He should not be gone for so long, and especially without word.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but no. There has been no word."

"Of course not." She turned her head up to see Carinya enter the bathing chamber with a few buckets of hot water, the other three guards carrying more. Once the tub was filled the men all left, to fetch maids to clean the mess by the bed, and Carinya undressed Lyla, beginning to gently scrub at her skin. The woman that Jaime had appointed to her as a handmaid had always been so kind- it was a constant relief.

She could hear the scraping of rough brushes against the stone floor as little maids worked to clean the vomit. "I ought to sleep with my head in a chamberpot," she jested to Carinya, but her handmaid did not laugh.

"You're just not used to the babe yet is all," insisted the pretty young maid, whose braid fell frizzy down her side, fuzzed from sleep. "You must get some rest today, my lady. You're not well. Perhaps I shall bring in Maester Pycelle? I've heard from other handmaids that bedrest works wonders on an exhausted body."

"I'll not go on bedrest." Her voice was firmer than need be, but she cared not anymore. It had been the fourth time at least that her maid had suggested it, and though she knew it was meant in the best intentions, she couldn't help but feel like it was an easy way to keep her out of trouble, out of the way of her father and the king and her husband. Not that she needed to be kept from Jaime's troubles- he had run away from her and the baby.

_I should have known he was faking it_, she thought bitterly. _I should have known he would end up leaving me and making his way home now that he's been taken from the Kingsguard. He probably will just annul the marriage now that he's had his way and wed some pretty southerner_. But he had said he loved her, and the babe. He had offered to take her and her family far away where they could be safe- not that Casterly Rock was safe with it housing Tywin Lannister. He would probably have her father and sisters put to death, wait until she had birthed her babe by Jaime, and then kill her too.

Carinya had begun to help her from the tub and dry her off when she heard an odd commotion outside her bedchamber and pulled on a thick velvet robe of silver, lined in white. "What is going on?" She demanded of her guards, all blocking her door. She stood on her tiptoes and watched as two men carried a stretcher across the hall. A man, tall and black haired, stared at her for a moment before returning to the other man's side, who was dripping blood on the cobble floors.

"Renly," she called. "Renly!"

Shoved her guards aside and running through them, she reached the king's brother, tugging on his arm. "You should go back to your chamber," he said with eyes as large as moons. "Please, Lyla, return to your bed. Or see to your sisters. Please."

Looking to the man on the stretcher, Lyla gasped and tears filled her eyes. The smell of corruption finally reached her nose and she covered her mouth to hide a choked sob as she saw Robert Baratheon lain straight on the sheet of ivory. There was a tusk stuck in his chest, and blood spilled all over. By first glance she could see. She knew.

"Oh gods, no," she whispered, grabbing at Robert's hand. It was a struggle to keep up with the men that ran His Grace down the halls, spiriting him away to where the royal apartments were. "Oh hells."

They gently placed Robert on his giant bed and the king grunted, looking around. "Where is my damned brother," he screamed, wincing at the pain from the tusk in his chest moving with each word.

"I am here, Robert," said Renly, making his way to Robert's side, laying a hand on Lyla's shoulder. "What do you need?"

"I need my damn Hand," cursed the king. "Ned, I need Ned."

"Your Grace, I wish for my father to come as well, but we need the maester here first." Lyla smoothed his hair back and pursed her lips. "You must be treated."

Robert eyed her and nodded. "As you will," he said. It was the same thing he'd said to Cersei about the direwolves. _But Jaime saved them_.

Pycelle arrived quickly and removed the tusk with a hurry, pouring various vials of ointment onto the wound and rubbing lotions around the gash as if to alleviate the skin around it before he doused it with boiling wine and tried his best to stitch the flabs together. After he'd finished, Lyla placed a heavy blanket over Robert's belly. "Drink, Your Grace, please drink." The old man held a bottle of milk of the poppy to Robert's lips and at first he looked as if he would decline, but Lyla glared at him and- in a very improper fashion- reach a hand out and forced his mouth open for the maester the pour the mixture down.

"If you stay stubborn like that you'll die," she warned.

Robert snorted. "And if I don't I'll die just as fast, only I won't be able to talk."

She shook her head, holding his hand until he fell into a deep sleep. "Call for my father," she told the king's personal steward. "Bring Tomard and Cayn." The man raised a chin, like he would defy, but she stood and grabbed his doublet by the collar. "Call for my father," she repeated through ground teeth.

The man blinked back shock at the unladylike act and made his way quickly to find her father's guards and wake the Lord Stark.

She sat back down in the chair by Robert's bed and sighed, looking over to Renly. "What in the seven hells happened, Renly?" She asked. Robert's crown lay on the table beside him and he looked to be sweating a storm. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. Robert couldn't be dying. They were thoughts that kept creeping through her mind, but when she looked at him, laying there with bloody bandages hastily wrapped over his chest seeping with blood and his skin so colorless, she knew it would be true. No man could survive such a powerful blow. It was a miracle he was still alive.

"The boar... Robert was so drunk and he wouldn't leave it. He waited until the last moment but he was too slow."

"Why did you not help him? Why not go after the boar or shoot at it with arrows? I should have gone with you all. Or sent Addam." She shook her head, freshly dried curls bouncing furiously around her. "How could you be so simple as to let this happen to Robert? Where is Her Grace?" It wasn't that Lyla wanted to see the queen, not after her dream, but she should be with Robert.

"I am here." The voice was tired and croaked, and both Lyla and Renly turned to see Cersei standing in the doorway, though she did not stay there for long. Gathering her skirts, she rushed to Robert, all sleep leaving her eyes. "It is true then," she murmured, taking his hand and sitting at the end of the bed, pursing her lips. Queen Cersei wore no lavish gown or jewels or tiara, only a simple sleep-shift of crimson with tousled hair of gold falling down her shoulder. The woman looked beautiful, even for her age and the children she'd had, and for a moment, Lyla saw a touch of sadness in the monarch's emerald eyes.

"Shall I bring the children, your Highness?" Asked Jocelyn Swyft, the queen's lady-in-waiting.

Cersei turned her head slightly, considering it. "No," she decided in the end. "No, let them sleep. Better they have sweet dreams than see..."

"Yes, my queen." The lady bowed her head and folded her hands together.

"How?" Cersei looked up to Renly with a raised brow. "How did this happen?"

"It was a boar, Your Grace," Lyla said softly, looking at Robert as he began to wake, slowly. He looked from Renly to Lyla to Cersei, and grimaced, laying his head back and pursing his lips.

Maester Pycelle was standing on the other side of Robert's bed, Renly paced in front of the window, and Cersei sat at his bed, with Lyla at his side. Servants ran all over the rooms, feeding the dual fireplaces and boiling more wine. Suddenly the door burst open. It was the steward. "Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King," he announced.

"Bring him here," Robert called in his dream-milk slick voice.

The room was red from the fire, and as her father entered, his white skin burned ruby. He looked around, and she followed his stare. To where Robert's boots were still on his feet, caked in mud and grass, and where the green doublet he was wearing had been slashed open and discarded on the ground, crusty with brown blood. When his nose wrinkled she knew it was because of the smells; smoke and blood and death.

"Ned," the king whispered when blue eyes caught grey. "Come... closer."

Her father went to the side of the bed, holding the bedpost for support. He still leaned heavily on his walking-stick, and his plaster-sheathed leg was loud on the ground as he walked. When her father finally noticed her, she reached a hand to his and squeezed, hoping he would understand that explanations for her presence were not of importance. He looked back to Robert. "What...?"

"A boar," Lyla said. Across the room Lord Renly grunted his agreement. He was still dressed in his hunter greens, all blood-spattered and slick.

"A devil," Robert corrected. "My own fault. Too much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust."

"And where were the rest of you?" Ned glared at Renly, eyes demanding. "Where was Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard?"

Renly's mouth twitched darkly. "My brother commanded us to stand aside and let him take the boar alone."

Her father lifted the blanket.

She stared at Robert's deformed body with eyes grown misty from the stench. He had been ripped from groin to nipple, and though they'd done what they could to close him, it wasn't enough. The wine-soaked bandages that Pycelle had wrapped over him had already gone black with blood, and the would smelled horrendous. When he dropped the blanket, it fluidly fell back in place, covering the wound and masking some of the scent. Where the royal apartments had once smelled of perfumes and lavender, they now smelled of rat poison and gore.

"Stinks," Robert said. "The stink of death, don't think I can't smell it. Bastard did me good, eh? But I... I paid him back in kind, Ned." Robert's smile made Lyla cringe- it was almost as awful as his gash, bloody and clotted as it was. "Drove a knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didn't. Ask them."

"Truly," affirmed Lord Renly. "We brought the carcass back with us, at my brother's command." He seemed to say that everything had been at Robert's command, but who had been there to command Robert? He may have been a king, but even kings needed to be told no every once in a while.

"For the feast," Robert whispered. "Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned."

Cersei's lip quivered, however slightly. "Robert, my sweet lord..."

"I said_ leave_," Robert insisted with some of his old ferocity. "What part of that don't you understand, woman?" Rising, Cersei gathered her skirts and left with the rest of her dignity, Renly and the others behind her. Lyla went to follow, but Robert caught her hand. "Not you... you stay."

She looked to her father, who nodded, before sitting back down. "Please, father, take the weight from your leg and sit," she urged, patting the chair beside her. He looked at it and then sighed, taking a seat.

Grand Maester Pycelle came over with his shaky hands, vial of thick white liquid in his grasp. It was the dream-milk that he'd given the king earlier. "The milk of the poppy, You Grace," he said. "Drink. For your pain."

But Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand and grunted. "Away with you. I'll sleep soon enough, old fool. Get out."

The Grand Maester looked at her father, stricken, before he shuffled from the room.

"Damn you, Robert," said her father once it was just they three. She could tell he was in pain from his leg, but she could also tell he was feeling grief, as it clouded his eyes like rain clouds. "Why do you always have to be so headstrong?" The question seemed to pain him.

"Ah, fuck you, Ned." The king sounded hoarse. "I killed the bastard, didn't I?" A curl of matted hair fell into Robert's eyes as he glared at her father, and Lyla wiped it away, cupping his cheek lightly before folding her hands together. "Ought to do you same for you. Can't leave a man to his hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Gregor's head. Ugly thought. Never told the Hound. Let Cersei surprise him." As soon as the king laughed he fell into a grunt, spasming with pain. "Gods have mercy," he muttered, swallowing in agony. "The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right... that's why, the girl... the gods sent the boar... sent to punish me..." The king coughed up blood, and Lyla wiped some from her cheek with the back of her hand. "Wrong, it was wrong, I... only a girl... Varys, Littlefinger, even my brother... worthless... no one to tell me_ no_ but you, Ned... only you..." He feebly lifted a hand. "Paper and ink. There, on the table. Lyla, write what I tell you."

She smoothed the parchment out on her knee and took the quill. "At your command, Your Grace," she said.

"This is the will and word of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and all the rest- put in the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do hereby command Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my... upon my death... to rule in my... in my stead, until my son Joffrey does come of age."

"Robert..." Her father began, but he quieted. He looked to Lyla, staring at the paper, and under the pressure of his gaze and by the motions of his lips as he mouthed the words to write, she bent her head and stated "my heir" in place of "my son Joffrey". Her eyes flew quizzical up to him, but he had already looked away. My heir? Joffrey was the heir. But she would not defy her father's will.

"What else would you have me say?" She asked Robert.

"Say... whatever you need to. Protect and defend, gods old and new, you have the words. Write. I'll sign it. You give it to the council when I'm dead." Lyla looked up at the king with sad eyes and then looked back down, writing what needed to be said.

"Robert," her father said in a voice thick with grief. "You must not do this. don't die on me. The realm needs you."

Robert took Ned's hand, fingers squeezing. "You are such a bad liar, Ned Stark," he said through his pain. "The realm... the realm knows... what a wretched king I've been. Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me."

"No," Lyla said to the dying man, placing the paper and quill down on the bedside table. "Not so bad as Aerys, Your Grace. Not near so bad as Aerys."

Robert managed a red smile and his eyes went from Ned to Lyla and back to Ned. "At the least, they will say... this last thing... this I did right. You won't fail me. You'll rule now. You'll hate it, worse than I did... but you'll do well. Are you done with the scribbling, girl?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lyla said as she offered the paper to Robert. The king scrawled his signature blindly, leaving a smear of blood across the letter. "The seal should be witnessed."

"Serve the boar at my funeral feast," rasped the king. "Apple in its mouth, skin seared crisp. Eat the bastard. Don't care if you choke on him. Promise me, Ned."

"I promise." Her father's eyes grew cold as the king spoke those last three words, and it was like he was staring into the eyes of a ghost for a moment before the king spoke and dragged him from whatever fantasy he was having.

"The girl," the king said. "Daenerys. Let her live. If you can, if it... not too late... talk to them... Varys, Littlefinger... don't let them kill her. And help my son, Ned. Make him be... better than me." He winced. "Gods have mercy."

"They will my friend," Ned said. "They will."

Robert closed his blue eyes, visibly relaxing. "Killed by a pig. Ought to laugh but it hurts too much."

Neither she nor her father laughed. "Shall I call them back?" Eddard asked of his friend.

"As you will." The king nodded, then shivered. "Gods, why is it so_ cold_ in here?"

Servants rushed in like water, feeding the fires at Lyla's command. The queen had gone and Robert seemed to miss her naught. Renly, the Grand Maester, and Lyla all stood watch as Robert pressed the seal onto the letter, stamping a black stag into the hot yellow wax that her father had dripped onto the paper. "Now give me something for the pain and let me die," Robert ordered.

The maester worked quickly to mix another drought of the milk of the poppy, and Robert drank until his beard was beaded with white droplets. "Will I dream?"

"You will, my lord," Lyla said. She'd had the poppy's milk enough at Winterfell when she'd broken all sorts of her bones, and she'd dreamed each time.

He smiled once more. "Good. I will give Lyanna your love, Ned. Lyla, take care of the little ones for me."

She nodded and ran a finger across his brow. "Of course."

Her father also spoke. "I shall... guard your children as if they were my own," he said slowly. She caught him staring at her belly, where she and Jaime's child grew, and she raised a brow- but he would not meet her eyes.

She stayed by his side until he fell back asleep, not snoring but deep and restful. He looked so young there in his bed, hands at his sides and black beard covering his extra chins. He might have even seemed handsome in a certain light as he lay there, but not particularly. Rising, she placed kisses to his cheeks and smiled sadly at him in his sleep, taking her father's hand and allowing him to escort her from the royal chambers.

Maester Pycelle found them as soon as they'd gotten to the main entrance of the apartments. "I will do all in my power, my lord, but the wound has mortified. It took them two days to get him back. By the time I saw him, it was too late. I can lessen His Grace's suffering, but only the gods can heal him now."

"How long?" Lyla asked.

"By rights, he should be dead already. I have never seen a man cling to life to fiercely."

"My brother was always strong," Renly commented. "Not wise, perhaps, but strong." The chamber was so hot she felt as though her skin would boil, and Lyla released her father's arm, making her way into the hall and breathing the cool air- not that it was cold in the hallways, for the South was as hot as it would be, but it was still a relief. She could still hear Renly speak. "He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding from his belly, yet somehow he slew the boar."

Her father met her out in the hall and held a hand to her belly for a moment, raising a brow as though questioning if the babe was okay. She nodded and he turned back to Renly. "Robert was never a man to leave the battleground so long as the foe remained standing," Ned told him.

Looking to Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood guard at the door, her father spoke. "Maester Pycelle has given Robert the milk of the poppy," he said. "See that no one disturbs his rest without leave from me."

"It shall be as you command, my lord." Ser Barristan looked older than his years at that moment, frowning. "I have failed my sacred trust."

"Even the truest knight cannot protect a king against himself," Lyla told the man, giving him a small smile of reassurance.

Ned nodded. "Robert loved to hunt boar. I have seen him take a thousand of them." Her father fell reminiscent and she rubbed his arm to bring him back to the present. "No one could know this one would be his death," he finished.

"You are kind to say so, Lord Eddard and Lady Lyla," Ser Barristan said.

"The king himself said as much. He blamed the wine."

The old knight gave a weary nod. "His Grace was reeling in his saddle by the time we flushed the boar from his lair, yet he commanded us all to stand aside."

"I wonder, Ser Barristan," asked the spider of the capitol, so quietly, "who gave the king this wine?" Lyla steeled herself so she wouldn't jump. She's not heard the eunuch approach, but she turned and there he was. He was dressed in a black robe of velvet that brushed the floor, and his face was freshly powdered.

"The wine was from the king's own skin," Ser Barristan said.

"Only one skin? Hunting is such thirsty work."

"I did not keep count. More than one, for a certainty. His squire would fetch him a fresh skin whenever he required it."

"Such a dutiful boy," said Varys, "to make certain His Grace did not lack for refreshment."

Her father gripped her hand. "Tyrek," he murmured. Lancel had gone west with Jaime in tow. Her heart twisted when she thought of him. She knew her earlier allegations were ridiculous, but how could he have been gone for so long? It had been two weeks when the search should have taken only a few days. She leaned into her father and he laid his arm around her shoulder, kissing the crown of her head.

"I know the lad well," said Varys. "A stalwart boy, Ser Tygett Lannister's son, nephew to Lord Tywin and cousin to the queen. I hope the dear sweet lad does not blame himself. Children are so vulnerable in the innocence of their youth, how well do I remember." The spider's eyes lingered on Lyla for particularly long.

"You mention children," she said. "Robert had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever arrangements you made, I want them unmade. At once."

"Alas," Varys said. "At once may be too late. I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lady. With your lord father's leave." Ned nodded and the spider bowed before disappearing down the hall, soft-soled slippers whispering against the stone as he went.

Cayn and Tomard went to them, but Lyla waved them off and helped her father across the bridge herself. She couldn't believe that Robert was dead. Joffrey would be king and Sansa would be his queen. The time to save her family was walking on a frail line and if she crossed it, by the smallest of hairs, she would fall into the black pits below.

There was the clamoring of boots and Lyla turned to see Lord Renly emerging from Maegor's Holdfast. "Lord Eddard, Lady Lyla," he called. "A moment if you would be so kind."

Her father stopped. "As you wish."

Renly walked to face them. "Send your men away," he told Lyla. She looked over her shoulder to see Addam Marbrand and her other three guards eying the king's brother with curiosity.

She waved them back, and they responded quickly. Lord Renly glanced warily at Ser Boros on the far end of the span, and at Ser Preston in the doorway behind them. "That letter." He leaned in close. "What is the regency? Has my brother named you Protector?" He didn't bother waiting for a reply. "My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard and other friends beside, knights and lords. Give me an hour and I can put a hundred swords in your hand."

"And what should he do with a hundred swords, my lord?" Lyla asked for her father.

"_Strike!_ Now, while the castle sleeps." He looked over his shoulder, back at Ser Boros, and dropped his voice to a low whisper. "We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your ward."

Her father regarded the man with cold grey eyes, sharp like ice. "Robert is not dead yet. The gods may spare him. If not, I shall convene the council to hear his final words and consider the matter of the succession, but I will not dishonor his last hours on the earth by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds."

Lord Renly stepped back, taut as a bowstring. Was this the kind and loving Renly that Loras had gossiped to her about when she was just a girl in Highgarden? Surely not. "Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the time Robert dies, it may be too late... for both of us. For your daughters."

"Then we shall pray that Robert does not die," said Lyla.

"Small chance of that," Renly retorted.

"Sometimes the gods are merciful," her father replied.

"The Lannisters are not." He looked to Lyla and her belly- did everyone know of her pregnancy now?- and turned away, heading back across the moat to the tower where his brother lay dying.

Lyla looked up at her father. "Perhaps we should listen to Renly..." she said softly. "What if the queen does plot? I'll not have you in trouble or being hurt, father."

"I'll not be hurt, sweet girl. Should Robert die and the gods reap his soul, then I shall be the Hand still- only of a different king."

"King Joffrey." The name was bitter on her tongue. The beast did not deserve a crown or the throne.

"A different king," repeated Ned. His eyes fell to her stomach once more but he looked away again and they resumed their walk back to his chamber.

She kissed his cheek when they arrived and begged him to rethink on Renly's offer. She knew enough of Cersei and had dealt enough with her to know that behind her pretty gold hair and light green eyes she was a fierce lioness, and no good could come of a war between lions and wolves- neither could win. He promised he would think on it, and then she went back to her chamber in the Red Keep, where she would lay in her and Jaime's bed, without a wink of sleep to come, and wait for the bells to ring.

The bells for Robert Baratheon, the king that was slain by a pig.

_*And here we are. The chapter I was dreading. But it had to come, and so here it is... I hope I did not disappoint!_  
_So, we have some choices here that weren't in the books; the option of Eddard rethinking on Renly's offer. Maybe he'll accept it or maybe not? Who knows. (oh wait.. I do ;)) You'll have to keep reading to find out!__Next chapter will be another from Lyla's POV- and I'm sure you'll all hate me after it. Apologies in advance!_  
_Have a great day, dearies, and enjoy!_


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